Breaking Point.

It's 13:55, and my room is the setting of a hellish, brutal battle. I'm in the midst of the worst case of writer's block, ever. Worst thing is, this is essay writing time, not creative writing time. My essay is due Monday, 4pm. I need 1500 words, a bibliography and painfully accurate citations. My topic: Neo-Victorianism. It hurts, believe me.

So, I'm sitting cross-legged, and have assumed a somewhat no-nonsense attitude to today. No strops, no tears, no Facebook procrastinating for five consecutive hours until stress really kicks in and I sob through the last seven hundred words (don't laugh, this happens to me, A LOT.) Well, this is kinda procrastinating anyway, but at least this is supposed to constructively clear out my head of all that extra rubbish floating around aimlessly.

Two cups of black coffee, three slices of toast and a Drifter (yes, why?) later, and I'm struggling. Seriously struggling, at that. I've made a plan for god sakes, (I NEVER PLAN ANYTHING) and now I've resumed the worst outlook of all: not giving a shit. Resignation is a dangerous prospect at any time, but in final year with assignment deadlines just over the weekend-filled horizon, it is excruciatingly risky. Either I have to somehow conjure up the energy and enthusiasm to believe everything I write to be gold dust, or, more likely, have some sort of lazy courage in my convictions (and my writing) and see what happens.

Word count: 741. Want: more coffee, more chocolate, and probably, a hug. Need: encouragement and/or no distractions. (Well done, successful with that one.)

I'm taking a very deep breath, flicking the kettle back on, and somehow giving this horrendous essay a go. Wish me luck.
I have a feeling, I'm going to need it.

Writer's Block.

An icy, lonely, irritating destination. A labyrinth of misery and headaches. It gets under your skin, makes your fingertips itch and your head feel like it might implode any minute. I've arrived. For uni, I've been asked to write 1000 words on something of my choosing, in prose. The only specification being, it has to be my interpretation of 'face.' I shrugged it off when we were assigned this activity, underestimating how much that actually was, when I was given the freedom of writing something of my choice. Evidently, I've got too much to choose from. My eyes can't focus, my fingertips are dying to write something wonderful and explosive that will leave everyone speechless when I read it out, but there's nothing coming. My wonderful/explosive/decent ideas have all seemed to run dry. There's nothing interesting anywhere in sight. I feel like I either go gushy and scarily into my real-life when writing today, or otherwise, it's totally emotionless and let's be honest, my gushing is the lesser of two very close evils. I have Arctic Monkeys playing, (I did have Neil Diamond in some desperate bid for inspiration, but it just made me want to cry into my coffee, so AM will substitute.) Saying that, AM always make me want to go out. As One For The Road strums, I imagine myself slumped effortlessly in the Brit, a drink in my hand, and the jukebox overloaded with demands for Arctic Monkeys and the Beatles. Writer's block may be the most frustrating thing ever. I know I can write. I realise I have the ability, and the enthusiasm, the intellect and the drive, and yet, blank. My word document sits lonely in another tab, engulfed in white space. It's screaming to be filled in, with anything. It's craving letters of some description, and a subject matter I just cannot seem to settle on. My indecisivity (is that even a word?) has hit me. My phone keeps buzzing familiarly, a welcome distraction from this awful dilemma. I give up. I can't force myself to write, evidently. So, my thousand words will have to be postponed. Don't cry now, will you? I'll try not to, but I'm not making any promises.