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I have heard that some writers suffer from what is called “Writer’s Block.” This is when a writer sits down at her computer or typewriter or legal pad and is unable to produce any words that can be put together, at one time or another, in a logical order that form a sentence and then, later, another sentence and another which are all strung together in what is called a paragraph. Apparently, this is a very sad and frustrating condition for a writer who — being in the field of writing — requires that words be put to paper in order to produce their namesake. Some writers are very conscious of schedule and environment and train of focus in order to maintain the necessary mindset that allows them to produce prose. When these things are all not working and “Writer’s Block” is upon them, it is the equivalent of a gigolo suffering from impotence: it is not a very good thing.

I am fortunate in that I have no such problems. I do not understand “Writer’s Block.” I understand that many times I sit down and write very poorly and other times I sit down and write less poorly, but I have never not been able to write a word or a sentence or a paragraph. Furthermore, I do not have any environmental inhibitions and can write in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner or on the London Tube, as long as my laptop has enough battery juice and I can see the screen. I do not mind being interrupted in mid-sentence and I am not fettered by someone reading over my shoulder as I compose. None of this bothers me.

Though I am not a perfect writer — far from it — and do have my own issues that I face on a regular basis. First and foremost I am bothered that I can only type about sixty words per minute. I realize that I am probably in the upper echelon of typers (excluding those whose profession is typing — which is different than writing) but it is not enough. I need the ability to type as quickly as I can think. What aggravates the matter further is that I am not very patient and feel the need to be pushing a story forward as quickly as possible. It might take me a half hour to type two or three pages and by the end of the half hour I am sick of what I am writing and give up. Of course, the reader would have been through these pages in a matter of minutes and will not (hopefully) suffer the same irritation at the amount of time needed to type it. But I am not my reader. The result is that I tend to write in very short thoughts and bursts, quickly moving on to another as I grow tired of the gibberish I am spewing. I love the one sentence paragraph — nothing gets the job done faster than that.

Though, when I read another writer’s work I do enjoy the clever descriptions and longer paragraphs setting a particular milieu or personal emotion. But I do not have time to write such things. I am too busy moving onward and wishing I was a stenographer. If this writing thing takes off for me the first thing I am doing is enrolling in court reporting school and get myself one of those crazy keyboards they use. That would be brilliant.

The other aspect of writing that baffles me is keeping everything organized. I have tens of thousands of words at this point and I can’t remember for the life of me what all I have said and I have no interest in going back to read any of it. This becomes a problem because I am trying to tell a story as it makes sense to me — and I fear that it will make sense to no one, including me, by the time I am done. And, what is worse, in my haste to get on to the next paragraph and be done with whatever I am currently talking about, I forget important items entirely only to remember them later and be unsure as to whether I ever wrote about them at all. I have no character arcs or plot points to guide the reader along the way.

Case in point: have I mentioned Ben’s ankle? Have I said one paltry word about the Achilles’ Tendon on my friend Ben’s left ankle? Up to this point, I believe the answer is no. I have certainly harped the issue of my sore and bewildered ankle past the point of recognition (because that’s what I mention any time I really have nothing else to say that accurately describes my emotions in a given moment). But what of Ben? I remember talking about him having made fun of my ankle and I remember mentioning that he believed nothing of what I claimed but other than that: I have said zippo! Nothing! Don’t you see what a substantial neglect of the responsibilities inherent in authoring a story I have committed? I have completely left out to dry one of the defining aspects of this tale: the Achilles’ Tendon of the Left Ankle! The poetry! The dramatic irony! The innate beauty that lies within this very karmic and altogether hilarious turn of events! And I forgot! Entirely.

This saddens me.

And it is one of the reasons I may not be cut out for this writing bit. I don’t know if I have what it takes. Honestly. Action needs to be taken. I can’t continue to go on like this.

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