I’ve hit the proverbial wall with writing. Well, I actually hit it a while ago…but I’m finally now addressing the issue. There’s a scene in Run, Fat Boy, Run where Simon Pegg’s character hits the runner’s wall. And he literally, in his exhausted delusional state, sees a brick wall in front of him which he peers through the cracks and sees himself on the other side urging him to break through. That’s how I feel. There’s a brick wall in front of me and on the other side I can see myself sitting with my laptop urging my other self to hurry up and start writing quality stuff again.

I used to spend much more of my days writing. And not just little descriptions of what I did that day, but short stories based on what had happened to me. I miss those…I feel like I had really hit my stride with that type of story telling.  And I want to make an effort to find that again.

It’s tough though…when I first moved to New York, I was very lonely. I had no concept of how little people actually saw each other…unless you worked together or lived within the same few block radius. Friends whom I had hung out with every day in college, I ended up only seeing once a month. If I was lucky. No one at work was my age, I didn’t like my roommates (at the time…not you, Lindsey!) and most of my friends lived either in Harlem or in Brooklyn. A lot of times I would go sit in Union Square and watch people. Watch everyone else with friends. Yes, I know…a bit self-deprecating, but aren’t we all at sometimes?

And then I discovered New York coffee shops. You weren’t expected to meet any friends there. No one cared if you were drinking alone or if you were meeting with a whole table full of people…they only cared if you sat at that table for too long taking up precious space.  And this is where I started writing. I had always been drawn to coffee shops, but here in my loneliest moments is when I used it to take myself back to times when I wasn’t lonely–whether that was earlier that same week or years earlier in college.

And now that I have many more friends and a very busy freelance job and a boyfriend/roommate whom I see and hang out with constantly and two dogs to care for…I guess that empty space that used to be there (that empty space which had to be filled with writing) no longer exists. And I think my art has suffered for it. I need to find a way to regain the need and the passion to write without sacrificing my happiness. Has anyone else hit these sort of walls? I mean, I’m sure we all have…but I’m curious if anyone has any suggestions.

So, I’ve been experiencing writer’s block lately. The creative juices just aren’t flowin’. As a result I’ve been attempting to do writing exercises when I fall into this deep, deep rut. The writing exercise today was simple: Put your pen to paper and just write whatever comes to your mind.

Under normal circumstances, this would be a good exercise. For me, however, it becomes a flashing arrow sign pointing to my ADD. Seriously…my mind, it’s like one big bag of weird up there.

Here is how my exercise went: (Imagine this said in one big breath)

I’m writing in free thought. It’s hard to write in free thought…why can’t I write in free thought hand? I’m wearing a red shirt, I wish I were wearing the blue shirt. My blue shirt is at the dry cleaners. Blue is so much more calming. The ocean…the ocean is calming as are its waves. Why did I stop surfing? Surfing was fun. Do they surf in Casablanca? Casablanca was a great movie. Ingrid Bergman was gorgeous…Humphrey Bogart, not so gorgeous. Gene Kelly, now he was a stunning man. Casablanca…the White House…Obama…whenever I can afford my next car I’m going to buy a Hybrid. I should really be driving one. All the cabs in NYC are going to be going hybrid in a few years time. Or I could ride my bicycle more often…bicycle, unicycle, unitard, baseball, copperhead, monkey, monkey, underpants…

See? One big jungle of jibberish that brain of mine.