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22 February 2006 @ 10:52 pm
The Search for a Metaphor for My Current Inability to Write  
I keep checking my creative mailbox, but it remains empty.

My river of creativity has been dammed up and diverted--by The Man!

My stories are songs too beautiful to be sung. Or too stupid. I get those confused.

My stories are unhatched eggs...mm, delicious eggs.

Though I continue to strike the match of my imagination against the box of language, the red stuff just flakes uselessly off the head. Too bad I never figured out that whole "flint" thing.

I have a recipe for a story, but not the ingredients. Because I haven't gone shopping yet. Or possibly because I have no money to shop with.

My writing is that pigeon I see at the 2nd Avenue bus stop that has only one foot and hops around kind of pathetically. And yet survives! Survives...despite its one pathetic little stub of a foot.

My ideas are porn stars who can't get work.

I left my fingers at the office again. (I need to tie them to my coat cuffs with a string so I don't lose them.)

The cage of my creative consciousness contains a wild and powerful tiger. If I let it out, it might attack people. Better off just keeping it where it is.

The lead of my pencil is impeded by marshmallow. The marshmallow stuck to my mental pencil point, I mean, which represents...yeah. Still not writing.

My stories are unborn flowers curled beneath the surface of a desert where the rain does not fall. Also, I am an umbrella seller.

My words are only bees. Bzz. Bzz.

I myself am a story unwritten. How can I take pen to paper before I have written myself? Shyeahh.

My words are trapped and unspoken, like soft, muffled sounds locked in the throat of a beautiful man. If only I could walk over to that man, cup his face gently, and pull that dirty sock out.

I could try turning on the lamp of my writing, but I think the electricity's out anyway.

I invited the strippers to my literary party, but...um, wait. I might possibly have forgotten to call the strippers.

My story is the last digit of pi. Fucking pi, man.

My cup does not runneth over. It runneth away.

My creative faucet may be turned off, but the gentle drip of words never entirely ceases. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. OH MY FUCKING GOD I'M GOING INSANE. Drip.

I've been bitten by the vampire of ennui and lost my creative soul.

I sold my soul to Satan for the ability to write, and the bastard gypped me. Seriously, learn from my mistake: don't trust this guy "Satan."

I cannot conceive, for my authorial womb is but a rocky, barren void--yadda yadda.

I've conceived. I just can't get this thing to come out. It's been nine years now. I'm actually pretty used to it. The cats seem to like it.

The cake of my fiction is only half-baked and I used baking soda instead of powder, so you totally wouldn't want to eat it anyway.

The stars above have all fallen down--and so of course we've all died and you couldn't read anything I wrote anyway.

I'm not a creator...ha ha! I lied! I'm actually The Creator. I'm just having a bad eon.

The story I want to write is a cat trapped in a bedroom, unable to escape and meowing like an insane freak.

My authorial pen has run out of ink and I have no squid.

I'm actually writing backwards from my ending, but I can't get beyond the period.

The llama of my words is hungry and cannot mwaa. (Wikipedia: The sound of llama making groaning noises or going "mwa" is often a very good sign of fear or anger.)

Before I can create, I must first eat my words. And by "words" I mean "worms."

The words I wait for are apples that do not fall. And by "words" I mean "worms."

My muse does not return my calls.

My muse was run over by a tractor.

My muse left on a jet-plane, which crashed in the ocean and sank three thousand feet where her rotted corpse was eaten by mollusks.

My muse was killed by a six-fingered man. Someday I will find him. And when I do, I will say to him, "Hello, my name is Anna. You killed my fiction. Prepare to die."

My muse is a muzzled dog on a leash who refuses to bite me.

My muse is a bone and I gnaw and gnaw at her, but to be honest, this metaphor really isn't going anywhere. I was going to try something that played on the idea of nutrients or maybe sharpening my teeth, but then it suddenly didn't seem worth the effort. Which is possibly a metaphor in itself. Do you like doughnuts?

The wind of my voice blows but the sails are not raised.

Oh, these eel-infested waters....
 
 
 
Vera: ronon-bitecopracat on February 23rd, 2006 06:57 am (UTC)
Mollusks eat flesh?

Oh my God! They do!

What do mollusks eat?

Some mollusks are vegetarians and only eat algae growing on rocks. Others are carnivores and eat other mollusks or fish. There are also some that filter out particles from the water. Those are called "filter feeders." Humans dislike some mollusks because of what they eat. For example, the oyster drill is a snail that likes to eat oysters which humans want to eat. They drill holes into the oyster shells and eat the animal. Have you ever eaten an oyster?
Anna S.: brainslugeliade on February 23rd, 2006 07:04 am (UTC)
When you cannot write, ten minutes spent googling to establish the proper species of seabed fauna is a mere trifle.
Killa: fierce cat in sinkkillabeez on February 23rd, 2006 07:02 am (UTC)
It's like... you're cookie dough!
Get her words out!

heeee. Careful, I think you just spent more funny on that post than I've managed in my whole life. OTOH, if your muse is busy laughing her head off, maybe you can sneak up on her.
Anna S.: rateliade on February 23rd, 2006 07:06 am (UTC)
I almost used that one! Buffy is a metaphor for us all. Er, maybe.
Poshykittyposhcat on February 23rd, 2006 07:10 am (UTC)
For someone who can't write...you sure can write.

>>"Hello, my name is Anna. You killed my fiction. Prepare to die."

Bwah! That line is perfect in all situations, really.

>> invited the strippers to my literary party, but...um, wait. I might possibly have forgotten to call the strippers.

::loves hard::

Hey, don't do what I just did and read a story you wrote a long time ago, so you can say, "Wow, that was really good." And then look with cold squinty eyes at what you're writing now. That REALLY doesn't help the old muse, let's just say. xoxox
bitter_crimson on February 23rd, 2006 07:32 am (UTC)
"For someone who can't write...you sure can write."

I'm gonna have to ditto that.
(no subject) - the_emef on February 23rd, 2006 04:16 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - eliade on February 23rd, 2006 08:33 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(Deleted comment)
Lady_of_Asherulady_of_asheru on February 23rd, 2006 07:44 am (UTC)
This is the most brilliant (and funny) description of writer's block I have ever seen. I am pinning it to my noticeboard as inspiration!
S
lyrstzha: Mad Simon: cerulgalactuslyrstzha on February 23rd, 2006 07:57 am (UTC)
How about: I've reached my literary credit limit, and all I've got left is this insufficient funds notice.

Or: My stories are songs sung by mice. Unfortunately, mice sing at a frequency too high-pitched for humans to hear.

I just want to say that I really love the way you write, even when you're writing about not being able to write. Also, mind the shrieking eels.
superheroes failing at oatmeal: robin is funny! [by livia]some_stars on February 23rd, 2006 07:59 am (UTC)
MWAAAAAA
oh my god, how i love this. NO SQUID.
Nannandibble on February 23rd, 2006 08:09 am (UTC)
My Muse and I parted company sometime late last spring, which may or may not be coincident on working at a low-paying, high stress job in a call center. Still working there. Still not writing. Do I perceive a pattern?

You're a fine writer: I know from your many fics set in the Buffyverse I've read. Let the impatience go and simply wait. Either the words will come, or they won't. Go with whatever sings to you when something does.

Writing is among the best things in the world, when it's happening; not writing is among the worst. Everything is grey cardboard. Nothing connects or shines.

We are the servants of the words and don't control their going away or their return. Like the tides, they ultimately aren't about us.

I hope that comprehension and sympathy are some help. That's all I got.
torch: cookingflambeau on February 23rd, 2006 08:58 am (UTC)
My stories are unhatched eggs...mm, delicious eggs.

Cadbury's creme eggs!
Nick: Daniel Jacksoncoconutboi on February 23rd, 2006 09:26 am (UTC)
For having a creative block, you sure seem to write quite a bit and in metaphore I may add. There's somethign fishy here. Fish eat worms too.
Nickcoconutboi on February 23rd, 2006 09:28 am (UTC)
*sigh* metaphor doesn't have an 'e'. And alas I am a failure at the righting. That means time for cookies and video games... I'm far more proficient at those.
(no subject) - coconutboi on February 23rd, 2006 09:30 am (UTC) (Expand)
janecarnall on February 23rd, 2006 09:54 am (UTC)
*fall over laughing*

My cup does not runneth over. It runneth away.



My creative faucet may be turned off, but the gentle drip of words never entirely ceases. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. OH MY FUCKING GOD I'M GOING INSANE. Drip.

♥♥♥

I've been bitten by the vampire of ennui and lost my creative soul.

♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

I sold my soul to Satan for the ability to write, and the bastard gypped me. Seriously, learn from my mistake: don't trust this guy "Satan."

♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

The cake of my fiction is only half-baked and I used baking soda instead of powder, so you totally wouldn't want to eat it anyway.

CAAAAKE! Oh, sorry. Pavlovian reflex.

The stars above have all fallen down--and so of course we've all died and you couldn't read anything I wrote anyway.

This? Is the best. ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

You have the best hand at writing about writer's block I have ever read. Not that this is all that comforting when blocked, but ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ you anyway.
(Deleted comment)
Kasskassrachel on February 23rd, 2006 12:20 pm (UTC)
My words are trapped and unspoken, like soft, muffled sounds locked in the throat of a beautiful man. If only I could walk over to that man, cup his face gently, and pull that dirty sock out.

You know, I can almost hear Jack Handey reading that.

Hee. :-)
fluffybkitty: gileshatfluffybkitty on February 23rd, 2006 12:55 pm (UTC)
weird, that happened to mine too.
tokagemusume on February 23rd, 2006 01:55 pm (UTC)
Hmm.
You may be the most creative un-writer I've ever read. Write about writer's block. I think you have a corner on the description.
Offical Exception to ALL the Rulestreetracer on February 23rd, 2006 02:18 pm (UTC)
Hello, surfing friends' flist and saw this, OMG, so true!

The cage of my creative consciousness contains a wild and powerful tiger. If I let it out, it might attack people. Better off just keeping it where it is.

Yeah, that's it, *exactly*. Mind if I link?
Anna S.eliade on February 23rd, 2006 05:44 pm (UTC)
Mind if I link?

Of course not--go for it! :D