All the things I thought would make me write

It’s been two weeks since I told myself I had something to write about and, so far, writing has evaded me, bar for a series of random, unfinished notes on my phone. It’s pretty standard for me, as I am a prolific starter of unfinished business. I am also a prolific believer in writer’s block.

When I think about it, I’ve had writer’s block since I left law. Two whole years ago. I thought the second I launched myself off of my failed-lawyer platform and onto a finding-myself-as-a-journalist landing I would magically start to write more. Technically I did start writing more straight away, becoming a journalist and all that you kind of have to for the day job, but I guess I had expected to write more in my free time. Write more just for me.

One of my favourite writers, Charles Bukowski, said:

“Writing about a writer’s block is better than not writing at all.”

And so, here I am, relegated to writing about writer’s block. Because my billions of little brain cells could think of nothing better.

In two years, all I have written are excerpts for a novel I have yet to link together or decide where I really want to go with it at all.

And so began the quest to find something that would make me write, anything at this point that I could feel meant something:

I began with trials of a million subscriptions - some of which I love and have continued to subscribe to since (Writing Space the app, The Art Newspaper, NYT Cooking, Audible) -

But they still didn’t make me write.

Downloaded a timer to force myself to be creative during certain slots during the week -

Played ‘Music for Artists’ on Spotify -

Renamed my list of ideas for writing ‘Writer’s Block’ as if labelling it so would make it less scary -

Reverted from typing, to traditional handwriting in case the trusty old pen and paper would do the trick, and when it didn’t attempted speaking aloud and recording my words. Discovered this makes my penchant for incessant rambling even worse. Back to typing again -

And yet, it still didn’t make me write.

Do you know what did make me write?

Noticing dumb things.

Like the fact that the only items left in my work fridge before Christmas included a tube of infected eye drops, and a 4.5% ABV mulled wine shot (Secret Santa gone wrong? I don’t know but I feel there must be a great story behind that. Or a man with very red eyes.).

So, yea, that made me want to write.

The adverts for ‘pure merino wool’ jumpers at St Pauls that morph into adverts for vapes by the time you get to Forest Gate -

That also made me want to write.

The moment where I forgot where I was and it wasn’t until the escalator jolted that I was brought back to earth with the sharp panic that accompanies almost falling backwards that I noticed the large tiles on the ceiling that had been yellowed by the fluorescent lighting and thought;

Mmm. I want to write.

Living, noticing the little things, the dumb things, logging them in my hoards of notebooks, making obscure connections about random things I see or hear, stepping outside of my head for a second, for some respite from my own self; that’s what made me write.

Sometimes, I spend too much time in my head that I forget that so many great ideas come from without. So to my little brain: thank you for making me notice silly little things and forcing me to write them down in my silly little notebooks and carry them about me on my silly little days. It turns out, it all means so much.