I'm sure it'll pass

There's one consolation to having writer's block: the fact that even though you aren't writing you still get to call yourself a writer. Which isn't so much a consolation as a lie. Still, it's quite a consoling one. And sometimes you take what you can get.

For those of you who might be reading between the lines, yes, I have writer's block. Although, how you can claim that was between the lines...

Anyhow, I think I know at least part of what's behind the block: I've got out of the habit of just coming up with stuff from scratch. During the MA there were always assignments - briefs, words, or ideas that had to be turned into something. Granted, I generally turned them into things that were very much my own, but there was always at least the smallest of starting points; the clicky thing that lights the gas, if you will. And if you won't: well, I suppose you could choose your own metaphor, but really you're just creating work for yourself.

I remember not needing prompts and deadlines - frankly, I'd be worried if I couldn't; it was only about a year ago. It was nice. I probably needed someone to shut me up or point out where I was being self indulgent, now and again, of course, like at the end of that last paragraph; and half the stuff I wrote never got finished... But still, I didn't really need prompts. And now? Well, this blog's the only thing I write from scratch, and just look at it. Poor limping creature with its uneven fur.

Oh well. There's a lesson to be learned, I supppose: you can't enter an institution without becoming institutionalised; at least a little. Still, I'd do it all over again. One of the best years of my life.

And I never was good at learning lessons.