Jon Kane.tumblr.com

I started my first blog when I was 20. I think. It was a while ago, but I’d been writing for a few years before that. It strikes me as strangely apt that it was called Writersbloc.co.uk. It was only when I started the blog that I really started being disciplined and actually writing something (almost) every day. That was nearly ten years ago. Today, I’m as blocked as it’s possible for someone to be. I’ve written a maximum of 3000 words in the last 4 months. I used to do that in two days.

The writer’s block has gotten so bad that I’ve started questioning whether or not I’m really cut out to be a writer. Do I actually have anything to say? Is my voice really that interesting? What if I don’t have any stories in me? I’ve been calling myself a writer for so long that I don’t know what the alternative is. I’ve been calling myself a writer without actually writing. I’ve talked myself into a place where all of my dreams and ambitions are tied into writing words on a page, but I don’t have the ability to get any words out any more. And it terrifies me. 

I’ve used the temporary nature of my work situation as a crutch for the last couple of years. I say that I’ve been unable to get work in the creative industries because I couldn’t guarantee that I’d be in country any longer than the limits of my 12 month work permit. Who would want to hire someone that won’t be available for the long term? Truth is I just didn’t apply for any jobs. The temporary work permit excuse made so much sense that it seemed stupid to try and prove it wrong. It has become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Now it’s getting very close to the point where I will no longer have that excuse (since the immigration stuff is very nearly over) and the pressure that I’m putting myself under is ridiculous. I’ve put my work life and ambitions on hold for the last two years, working a variety of shitty jobs to pay my bills and haven’t been pursuing any kind of creative or intellectually fulfilling work. Now I’m nearly thirty and have very little to show for my efforts.

It feels like I have to do something now. I just don’t know what, and I don’t know how. I’m flailing around, telling myself that I could do this and do that but the simple fact is that I have to sit down and do it. And the blank page is kicking my ass.

I can tell you that I love writing. I love sitting in front of a keyboard and getting into that state of flow. I love that point where you can just keep going and going and hundreds of words are coming into your brain and then suddenly a sentence comes out and you have no idea where it came from. I love it when your brain takes a sudden left turn and goes to a place that I was never aware of before. When I write stuff for my standup comedy, that’s the place that I aim for. But there’s a voice that keeps popping up, and it asks the same thing over and over:

“Who gives a shit what you think? You know nothing. You’ve done nothing. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I’ve sat at my computer for hours, staring at the screen. I write 100 words and then delete them all and hate myself because they suck. I go to a coffee shop and sit with my notebook and write a page and a half of utter drivel. I read it back and it’s terrible. Then I question why I even want to do this in the first place. I remember when I used to be able to write and get excited about it. I’d write things and actually like what I was putting down on the page. I’d walk through the city and be inspired by all of the stuff going on around me. 

Now I know that the block is nothing new, and my fight with resistance is common among creative types. It’s happening to me because I want so badly to do something that allows me to change a large part of my life for the better, and it feels like I can’t just force my mind and body into a state where that is possible. I don’t want to work in the service industry any more. I’ve done it for ten years, and that’s enough. Hell, it was enough five years ago. And it’s this pressure of ‘I don’t want to do this anymore’ that is killing me. 

My personal life is awesome: I’m married to a woman I adore and I live in a place that I love. But I want to be able to start a family with her. I want to be able to support them while doing work that I enjoy. I don’t want to be 35 and a bartender. So how do I make it better? How do I do work that fulfills me? I don’t know the answer, but I know that if I keep typing, eventually the answer will come out. Eventually I’ll be able to reply to the voice in my head.

“I care what I think. I know what I’ve experienced. I’ve lived life. I want to write it down.”