“I have done nothing all summer but wait for myself to be myself again.”
~ From Georgia O’Keefe’s letter to Russel Vernon Hunter
Born in Leo season, I deeply feel the enchanting magic between Memorial and Labor days. These past few months, I wiggled my toes in sand, dipped my feet into lakes, dunked myself fully in chlorinated pools, admiring various angles of sun glint on so many water surfaces. I took lots of early morning strolls and late afternoon naps, read two or three books a week, learned to read tarot. I joined a pickleball team where our laughter totally makes up for our lack of noticeable skill. I laid in the grass to watch the fireflies, guzzled sun tea, ate tomatoes still hot from the vine, throat-screamed at concerts, hugged my best friends, wore bright colors, made countless charcuterie boards to nibble on outside instead of fixing a real dinner. I said yes to any activity that would leave me feeling young and free and joyful.
Usually by September, as the days grow noticeably shorter, I grow increasingly more contemplative and quiet. And with this withdrawal, my words return. This is the rhythm of who I am. Summer is for letting all the goodness in. Fall and winter are for letting that goodness flow back out through my words.
So my flabbers are gasted to find myself in the throws of the most relentless writer’s block I have ever encountered. My creative well isn’t just dry, but barren, a desolate landscape of complete nothingness. Writer’s block hits everyone at some point or another. Writers are often encouraged to write through the block (like an athlete playing through the pain). I wrote a few things over the last few weeks that probably won’t get published because 1) it’s complete drivel and 2) anyone who reads it will immediately recognize it as such.
It’s not procrastination as much as a complete lack of inspiration. I have a document entitled Parking Lot where I “park” ideas for future pieces, a 70 page stream-of-consciousness list of quotes, random facts, and idle musings. I read through the entire thing and couldn’t find a single thing that fired me up enough to expound on. Yikes.
Writing is both a solitary and communal endeavor. It’s a ladder that lifts me out of the pain or hopelessness of being alive. But it’s also a bridge that helps me connect to those around me. When I’m not writing, I’m lonely. I am terrified that I’ll never write again. I am terrified that I have nothing left to say, that I’m simply regurgitating other people’s words and thoughts where mine should be.
But, as my friend Lauren likes to say, that is not a today problem. The words will come or they will not. I cannot force anything. So I wait to be rescued from myself.
