Writer's Block Party

Have you been?

"Continue your 1-day writing streak", the prompt on my journaling site says to me. "cONtinUe Ur oNe dAY wrItiNg STrEAk??!" is this site mocking me? It's been 6 days since my last entry. So, of course, I feel attacked.

Why do I take an automated sentence personally? Great question. Like most of my triggers, it's probably related to shame. Deep down (and in the not-so-deep down), I feel ashamed that I've had excessive amounts of free time in the past year to create something— to see one of my 999 ideas through—and yet I still haven't produced a single work of fucking anything much less "art."

And I have the audacity to consider myself a writer?? What nerve. What bravado.

But, but…I've identified as a writer for so long that I don't know who I am if I am not...that.

When I was in the first grade, I wrote an award-winning (among all the first-graders) short story about zombies. Complete with brain-eating! I was 7.

When I was 12, my drawing (untitled: crayon on construction paper) was chosen to be exhibited at the Youth Fair. I don't remember the art. I remember the prestige. It was a huge deal (for a 12-year-old).

When I was 22, I could write a play in a few weeks; sometimes, it would only take me a couple of days. These were full-length plays that were put on their feet and into production at our theater company with only a few re-writes and some tweaks. I was drippy-fresh out of college and pumping out plays (that were getting critically (albeit local critics) acclaimed ) like a ticker tape cartoon. And this wasn’t some community theater schlock. This theatre company was among the first of its kind in Miami. From 2001 to about 2007, Mad Cat Theater Company was the new cool thing, and we, its members, the indie darlings of the Miami Arts scene (the same art scene the brought you Oscar Isaac, btw). In those years, I wrote and co-wrote 9 plays and won two awards for Best New Play. (For real. You can Google it).

Here are some of my receipts, respectfully.

I'm very proud of those plays, the stories I told, and the characters I created. These were people who had deeper lives and circumstances than I had any business understanding at that age. And the fact that I was able to write them in a way that people related to or found authentic *in some way* is humbling. It’s a feeling unlike any other. Connecting with people through something I’ve created, out of nothingness, is a delicious drug and I want more.

I don't say this to pat myself on the back.

I say all of this to give you context. To highlight that, while creative excellence had been seen in me as a child, obviously, it really hit its sweet spot in my 20s when I could pump out an objectively good play in a couple of days, if not weeks.

That's prodigy shit.

That's "channeling a higher source" vibes.

Maybe every playwright is pumping out plays like that, I don't know. But it felt like a calling. It cemented my road from actor to writer.

I'm not saying I'm Mozart or Mamet. I’m just saying I had a gift and a rare one at that.

Seemingly, these stories, words, and characters came out of nowhere, like divine channeling. I could hear the dialogue so clearly, like a muse whispering in my ear. But, If I had a muse, where did they go?

These days I find myself staring at the 5th page of a play I started 18 months ago with complete paralysis. Nothing comes.

So, I move on to another one of my 998 ideas and start another play. I hear their voices for a solid 20 minutes, and then they're gone too.

Now I’m staring at the 5th page of two unfinished plays, neither of which is short-play worthy, not even one act.

I move on to the children's book whose outline I've written. No words.

I feel like a classic car that once turned heads—brilliant and shiny. But she went too furious and too fast and wound up gathering dust and rust in someone's front yard. My creative attempts are just gasps from the fumes I've got left in the tank. I need to be restored to greatness!

This "writer's block" has been going on for YEARS now. I've even sought out conventional, shamanic, and ketamine therapy to get the magic back. But my muse remains elusive. The portal to the divine clogged as thick as my shower drain.

I always thought it was because I was using all my creative juice working in Ad agencies. I used to think, "If only I had the time to create what I wanted to create instead of wasting my time only to watch my ideas die at the hands of corporate suits, then I could be the next Lin Manuel!" But my #HotGirlSabbaticalSummer and recent in-between-gig-free-time have shown me that time and day jobs have nothing to do with it.

It’s something…else. And I used to have “it.”

Whatever it is, muse, mojo, or motivation, I want it back.

::whispers:: how do I get it back?

It's time.

I have a lot of people to embody, stories to tell, and things to say.

So, here’s my plea to you, the reader: If you are a muse, know a muse, or have seen my old muse anywhere, contact me. If you have a trick to opening up the divine creative channel, or a playwriting class you know about, hit me up in the comments. And if it took ayahuasca, a silent retreat, or a deal with a forest witch to get your mojo flow back, LET ME KNOW. Nothing is off the table.

I’m literally trying anything…

Because having a great idea is worthless if you don't have the expression of it. And I set a goal to finish SOMETHING by the end of this year, and it’s *basically* Summer already.

::Tick Tock::

Plus, I'd like to do my press junkets while I'm still smoking hot 🔥, if at all possible.

As always…live, laugh, life raft,

XO Me 💋

---

*For real though* If you have any tips or tricks I’d LOVE to see them in the comments. Or if you’re interested in starting a Writer’s Block Party™ where we badger each other into productivity and accountability for whatever creative endeavor we’re trying to accomplish, then RSVP below and let’s get it going.