Writer's Block

"This space intentionally left blank."-any government publication

I'm staring at the blank piece of paper in front of me. I think it is staring back. It hates me. I know it does. I can almost hear its taunting voice. "Go ahead. I dare you to write something." It sits there, mockery oozing from its pristine white surface as I stammer, confused and bewildered.

Every so often artsy folks supposedly "lose their muse". One minute everything is clicking and the creativity is flowing. The next minute, deathly silence falls. Or so they claim. I bet that a lot of people look at this as an excuse for the bohemian lifestyle of most artsy folks. Personally I never really understood what they meant either. Until now.

I have lost my muse.

The paper is still mocking me. I threaten to crumple it up and throw it in the trash. It smirks at me knowingly but is silent for now.

The sun is still out but I can see the moon rising from where I sit. It is framed rather nicely between the umbrella of the patio table and the peaked roof of the coffee house where I sit. A tree grows right next to the deck where I sit, spreading its limbs over me. I feel at peace. I have not felt at peace recently. Work has been busy and tiring. School has been obnoxiously boring. But most of all the dark shadow of Origins has been casting itself over my mind.

Most of you probably will not understand. If you are going to Origins, you are going as a participant, a gamer among gamers, making the pilgrimage to a gaming Medina. (Everyone knows that GenCon is Mecca, so Origins must be Medina.) However, I am going as an exhibitor, a very small press playing in the big boys' pool. By the time this article sees print Origins will be over and I will be able to tell you how good or bad it was for me. Right now, the uncertainties threaten to overwhelm me.

That is why I am here. My wife could see that I was stressed and suggested that I come down to this coffee house and relax. We were just here for our anniversary and we both enjoyed the mellow, artsy atmosphere, expressed in rich earth tones and the blessed smell of freshly ground coffee beans.

And so I am here, with my pen, prepared to do battle with this mocking sheet of paper, hoping to find my muse. Maybe she is hiding in the branches of this tree. Maybe she is curled up at the bottom of my cup of coffee. Maybe she is frolicking on the happy tongue of flame that dances on the candle on the table in front of me.

Or maybe she has not left at all. Could it be that the pressures of life have overwhelmed her voice? Could the strain and stress of the upcoming convention be distracting me from her clarion call? Maybe she is just asleep and needs a cup of coffee, too.

Whatever it is, one thing is certain. Now, as so many times before, I stand before the Wall. In any creative endeavor, whether writing or game design or painting or anything else, the Wall awaits. I have faced It before when working on Junk and now I face It again. It is the Wall that speaks to me from that mocking sheet of paper, taunting my efforts. I reach out to touch the Wall. It feels so hard and unyielding. Yet I know that more lies on the other side. Future columns wait to be written. The secret history of the Ark. The intricate dance of the Brotherhoods of the Right and Left Hand Paths. And more, so much more. I hear it calling to me from beyond the Wall.

My eyes narrow.

The paper shudders. It senses defeat.

There is no way over the Wall. There is no way around the Wall. To pass the Wall you must pass through It.

I pick up my pen.

I once read a book on writing called Writing Down the Bones. In it, the author talked about writer's block. Her cure is simple yet profound: write. There is always something about which to write. If nothing else, write about your writer's block. "Push through the Wall," she would say. "Do not give up." If I were not to write, the Wall wins. I cannot let that happen. Alyria waits on the other side. My muse waits on the other side.

I take a deep breath. My choice is made.

I step forward.

My pen is ready.

Slowly, painfully I press myself into the Wall.

And I begin to write.