Learning to live with writer’s block

By JENNIFER LYNNE ZIEMANN

“Good writing is true writing”
- Ernest Hemingway

It has finally happened: writer’s block. Yes, I say the dreaded incantation: writer’s block. Umpteen columns written for The Beat and other various essays or blogs yet I have been unable to write a damn thing for nearly three weeks. I have attempted, struggled, a sentence here or there. I have rearranged “the bedroom” (you know, the place where the magic happens as they say on MTV’s Cribs ) thinking maybe by doing so I would rest more and then be able to write. I have reorganized my desk and added new shelving near said desk all in the high hopes of being inspired. I just now lit a candle on my desk as my partner drones mindlessly on about his cooking largesse behind me, the candle lit with the assumption it will focus my attention away from him. Yatter, yatter, yatter - Michael, hush!

Anyhow, so this is it, this is my column, and y’all out there are going to bear with me as I bare my angst about writing. You may be asking, “Who cares about your writer’s block?” Well, dear reader, if you read my columns and enjoy them or hate them, then you should care because this is about therapy, about breaking though the concrete wall and getting back to my Zen moment when this little issue of mine did not exist and I can go back to writing what you love to love or simply love to hate.

Let’s try to pinpoint the moment this block started. I got back from a solo road trip to Arkansas where I had traveled to visit my Grandparents. My Grandma has Alzheimer’s and had suffered two strokes a month earlier, so this visit was sad but I was happy to see them. For those of y’all who know me, I am a terrible driver; this is my first long distance solo trip anywhere and I survived it and so did the other drivers on the road. I apologize for not sending out fliers to warn everyone along my route.

Upon my return, I touched up my last column and then mayhem began to ensue. My eldest son started being lazy with his schoolwork and of course this had to be addressed, then my Dad had a heart attack and quadruple bypass surgery from which he is now recovering very well. My youngest son all of a sudden began thinking he is independent - good thing, right? Well, not when he disappears for an afternoon to take a bike tour of the North Main area with some friends and fails to let anyone know his plan. I was pulling my hair out with worry. Ahem - he is my baby. Plus my eldest has increased my car insurance premium by about $550.00 per six months by his mere capability in passing his restricted license and incapability of getting the good grade discount. Then I had trauma at my work, which is another column altogether. All of these events and more that I haven’t even mentioned in a mere three-week span.

OK, so nothing cited above should make me wordless. I should stop the whining. Well, then there is the small inconspicuous tattoo, the one on my wrist, the one of the shooting red star, the one that my partner got too. Don’t get me wrong, I love the tattoo and do not regret it for a moment. I have three others and this one just like the others has personal meaning to me that would exceed any relations I have with dear, loving Michael. But then my girlfriend, Olivia, said, “You’re more committed now than if you had married him. Rings can be tossed out and then you can get a divorce, but you two will always have matching tattoos.” Shit, I am a commitment phobic. No wonder I cannot write! Michael!!!!!

Now, don’t get me wrong - he is my life partner, I love him. But is this a symbol of something larger? All I intended was to make a symbolic gesture on said body representing the workers of the world! That was his stated intent as well. Has it taken on a life of its own, become bigger than it was meant to be? Is it harbinger of “its your turn to do the laundry, dear”? AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

I feel better, now that the air has been cleared. My true source of angst revealed, put to paper and spelled out. I refuse to let matching tattoos mean anything else besides our joint commitment to the rights of the working class. Commitment, hell, we made a commitment the first time neither of us cringed when we realized I was brushing my teeth with his toothbrush (he color codes our toothbrushes to prevent this, but I can’t ever remember which color belongs to me).

Every columnist, journalist, novelist, storyteller, fact maker, yarn spinner or legend creator ultimately has one goal and that is simply to have their writings transcend the test of time. It is what defines us - we want to be the next Ed Bradley, Ernest Hemingway, Maya Angelou, Hunter Thompson, Gertrude Stein, Stephen King, Emily Dickinson, Fredrick Engels or Nellie Bly. Yes, I want to be remembered for what I have written but it is not just that, I want to spark change by my words. Is it arrogance? No, simply passion, simply wanting to be the best you can be at what you love the most.

So, I write and I write even if all I can manage is one sentence on a certain day. I practice and practice. I make notes on pieces of paper that I leave lying around and then pick up later. One lonely word may be on that piece of paper and I am wondering what was it for, but then it triggers a memory that I pursue with my keyboard until it comes out pure.

“Good writing is true writing,” said Ernest Hemingway. This hangs above my computer where I can see it and believe it. It is even true if all you can manage to write about is writer’s block.