I have suffered greatly because of an assumption, stupid as
it may sound when I write it down, that I should be somehow writing all the
time. I have visualized other writers in their garrets, bachelors and spinsters
who have sacrificed their lives to their art, writing day and night, producing
reams and reams that make them famous, if not rich. I have flagellated myself for not being more
like them, for not being more disciplined, for wasting time, for spending any of
it away from my desk. For years this tug of war made me an insomniac. I would
not let myself rest or sleep in peace, I would not let myself be. Anything
other than writing was a waste of time.
I felt the tug of the hook in my mouth any time I was away from the
desk. All in all, I would have to admit that I have expended more time on
regret than on writing.
When I look back at the onset of my Big Block, I think I
could have avoided it by resting. But I was too blind to see that the block was
my body’s way of saying it needed rest, relaxation, simply being. The little
grey cells were crying for respite as well. There are times in life, momentous
times when the best thing to do is be still. This stillness works the way no
amount of struggle does. It is fruitful and healing. If I had done this I may
have bypassed The Block.
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