Since I’ve been stuck, I decided to give myself a writing prompt. Last year, I used themes (February was love). This year, I didn’t feel like tackling anything so broad, so I decided to grab the book closest to me, open to any page, and blindly choose a spot. Wherever my finger lands is my prompt for the day. It might be an entire sentence or a few words. Yesterday’s was “Turn down the volume on your life.”
I haven’t gotten far with today’s choices. I picked them before bed last night, hoping that a night’s sleep with them in mind might result in a productive writing session this morning. It didn’t work. I’ve been staring at them, switching between them, and still getting nowhere. I’m not giving up though. I might choose a different book and try again, or just force myself to write something…anything…for each. Just to write. Just to work.
I love when I have words swirling around my brain begging to written down. That’s when writing is pure joy. Days (weeks) like these, when there’s nothing but static, are torture. I question everything I think I know about myself. My identity crumbles so quickly! This exercise is my attempt to fight back against that insecurity. I need to treat it like a game, though, and not take myself so seriously. Exercises like these don’t need to produce masterpieces, they just need to keep me writing, connected to the process.
If the random sentences don’t work, I’m going to switch to the dictionary: pull three to five words and use them in a poem. Any length, any style, as absurd as it needs to be. I want it to be fun, to remind myself why I love to write. We’ll see how it goes.