For Today’s improvisation, I will…uh…oh God, my writer’s block is so powerful I think it’s even preventing me from thinking up ways to destroy it!
Ack! It’s too powerful! I…I…I can’t think…no creativity…there’s just a white…evil…void.
The void…It’s so white and blank.
I want to add colour in it. Rainbow Paint! Make the void beautiful! Splash! Blue! Green! Red! Rid this void of its nothingness!
But wait! The void is eating the colors! How could I forget. Writer’s block can not be made beautiful.
My endless fight against writer’s block is meaningless. Every Improvisation post I make, an endless task of milking entertainment out of something so explicitly ugly and heinous.
No. Writer’s block isn’t ugly. Ugliness, horror, that is fuel for literature and fiction. Writer’s block is not ugly. Writer’s block is nothingness.
But…is this really nothingness? Even though my mind is suffocating in the vast white void, the beast that eats all creativity, born of blockage and apathy, I can still see things. I see more than the white. I hear more than the nothing…
I can hear the small whispering of potential characters…human and not at the same time, which have not reached their destinies…
I can see the shapes of the stories I can make. Their form unclear made up of nothing more than feelings and formless ideas…
Their calling out to me…a thousand children crying out from within a prison
waiting to be freed.
I must reach where they are…the writer’s block is so thick, but the voices call me.
The words of Pratchett ring in my ear, pushing me on. The emotions of Tezuka mark my every forward step on the stone path made by Kathryn Lasky and Emily Rodda…the floor of my childhood.
The white of the blockage wishes to consume me, but I fight back with the words of Stephen King, and the sword of J R R Tolkien. The jail of the small voices are just hardly within my reach.
And with a roar as powerful as the presence of Walt himself I tear the jail door off its hinges
Out flies the millions of voices, no longer calling desperately, but screaming the cries of battle, to shred the writer’s block in to nothingness. All out chaos reigns in my imagination. Englishmen on horseback race out, letting their existence be known. A flying castle made of lizards, it is bizarre but unquestioned. William Wallace swings his sword against the white blank.
Fish with relationship issues. Keyboards that sing. A pair of lips trying to convince everyone it is God. The mouse riding the leaf. The monster with the frog’s tongue. A society of giant owls. The school with the secret factory. A gold block that can never be contained. The car that always crashes but never kills. The African ghost that builds the cabin, only to burn.
The randomness that I have unleashed will not be put out by a blank born of just one blockage. The writer’s block now but a hilarious memory of a time I could not imagine. Wild and fun is the encouraged mind that has no bars or limits placed upon its sense of un-reality.
And so, for the next few days, I need not worry of writer’s block or the lack of ideas. there are plenty in my mind, and many willing ideas. I just need to find and waste not one. A duty to my insane mind’s creations is what drives me to write.
Writer’s block is never pretty. But it’s destruction can be spectacular