Desert

arid landscapes of paralysis

I do this every week. Right around Wednesday (or Thursday, let’s be honest) I begin to panic over my lack of a PDW post. Every week I seem to think I have more time than I do until Wednesday rolls around and slaps me across the face. How did I land here with no writing and nothing to write about? It’s not writer’s block so much as it’s a writer’s desert. No words, no thoughts, no things to say. Come to think…that’s the exact definition of writer’s block. Whatever. Semantics.

Each week, unless something is burning in my belly, I sit down and write out some variation of fuck me I don’t know what to write about gahhhhh! The next sentence usually expounds on that a little bit. Like how much do I not know what to write about? Is it a lot or a little? Then I go into some panicked stream-of-conscious writing where I list out all the things that currently give me anxiety. This week my stressors are mostly related to this TV show I’m trying to make - finding a production designer, finding locations, finding money. Basically there’s a lot left to be found. To be fair, these are legitimate stressors (according to me) but nevertheless it’s landed me in a place of unpreparedness, the dreaded desert of creativity.

What’s funny to me about this routine is just how routine it is. The stressors change week to week but the procrastination remains the same. Why? At this point it’s a boring story - the writer who won’t write, the painter who won’t paint, the singer who won’t sing. The excuses pile up while the world starves for the art. This incessant internal battle seems to be as old as the idea of ‘artist’ itself.

What can break through this desert? Motion helps. Moving my fingers across the keys helps. It’s as though each word written makes the muscle just a tiny bit stronger. Each painfully conjured sentence smoothes the path for the next sentence.

Consistency is also helpful. And the best defense is a good offense as they say. Regularly watering the fertile ground under your feet might just keep the sand and the heat and the lifelessness at bay. Anything worthwhile I’ve done in my 33 years has been the result of steady and persistent effort. Whether becoming fit or making a TV show or cleaning up my finances, good enough over a long period of time has been more valuable than perfect for a limited time.

Perhaps this post is nothing more than a writer biding his time as he muddles through the desert. Or perhaps this is an opportunity for all of us to look at our own deserts. What are the things we want in life that seem to be trapped in a sandy, arid landscape of paralysis? What could motion look like? What could consistency look like? What could a good offense look like once we’re out of the desert?

I don’t really know the answers because I never know the answers. I also don’t know what your desert looks like. It’s likely that the journey to your desert was different that the journey to mine.  What I do know is that never-ending sand is fine and survivable but the world could probably use a little more lush, green, vibrant, flourishing, radiant ecosystems of creativity.