I have a terribly virulent strain of writer's block, and it seems like I've had it for months. It seems that way because I have. Since at least December. I'd be willing to start smoking again to crack it open. It's reached its roots and shoots into every nook of my life.
For me, the block is never caused by a problem I can't solve. Writer's block is always an inability to find a problem I care to solve. It's always a question of care. A problem of passion. And this year, this year, this year so far, I can't seem to care about writing another screenplay, or another short, or another contest runner-up-ship, or another disappointment. I don't care to meet people, I don't care to date, I don't care to write. I only get excited about paying off my debt.
"When you get old, your heart dies."
I was fooling with my picture phone and took some photos of myself, quite similar to some I took in Harlem three years ago. I loaded them onto the computer, and there I saw them side-by-side with the pictures of three years ago. I look so much older now. Both fatter here and thinner there. More crooked. Graying.
I have these fictional lives in my hands, and that used to really excite me, but now, for such a long time, I couldn't care less what they do. These toys no longer amuse me. I'd rather just sleep. That's where Ralph and I are vikings.
I keep having dreams about everyone I used to know. It seems my subconscious enjoys making them take a few turns round the stage, even as it tires at making fictional folks dance. It's good to see them respond to calls for encore. They don't respond to calls on the phone.
And now I sound like a massive mope, with symptoms of depression.
But. It's better than writing nothing.