Writer’s Block by Kate Barnaby

I sit on the train and think about writing something. I’ve been encouraged to write, to express myself, if I have things to say. Well, I do have things to say, but who’s really going to be interested? And how do I start?

Suddenly, on this particular rainy day on the delayed Werribee line, I had a brainwave. Where’s my pen? Shit. I search through my dilapidated, held-together-with-duct-tape bag, which, when I really need something, seemingly turns into Mary Poppins’ magical endless bag. I pull out my keys three times, thinking each time that I found my pen and getting increasingly frustrated. Eventually my hand grips a long, thin plastic tube but by then, I’ve forgotten what I was going to scribble on the side of my mX.

It doesn’t matter anyway, it seems all I have is the pen cylinder. Where the hell is the ink? A quick drunken flashback reminds me vaguely of mX spitballs and the moving through Melbourne artwork.

But why am I writing about drunken escapades? I need to save those for my Facebook status updates. Favourite song lyrics? TV quotes? Same thing. There’s really nothing to write about.

I sit on the train and try to remember my idea, and different images flood my mind. But mostly I think about the actual writing part, the affluent language needed, sentence structures, and how I should cast off.

One main niggling question is what style should I write in? There’s too much pressure for writers. Short story? Prayer? Analysis of a politically biased opinion piece? Recipe? Creative writing? Maybe I’ll try my hand at poetry:

Self-cut, indie fringe

Bright red tights, she really is

One delicious roll.

Perhaps I could write something that only one other person will understand. Funny for them, but everyone else will tune out. (For reference, see above Haiku. There is only one person who could decipher that.)

I could write about love and loss, but just how do I write that magical tear jerker? I mean, without sounding like a whiny teenager. I could tell you about how guys pine after me but the one I like is a complete ass. Just enough self indulgence to let you in and know you’re thinking of me and want to know more? Enough self indulgence to pour out every tiny little detail? (Incidentally that’s pretty much autobiographical. I’m the former, but I won’t elaborate).

Ideas come in and out of my head. Boring. Already been done. Too self indulgent. Not self indulgent enough. I’m not sure I’m any good at this.

The writer’s block is frustrating. I have (potentially) hundreds of interesting ideas. I just can’t think of them.

There are already so many biro-ink stained fingers in thousands of word-filled pies. Maybe the writer’s block is stopping me from poisoning them?