The alphabet project has me stumped. Blocked. Constipated. At least I am blaming it on this alphabet project. In reality, I have a serious case of writer’s block. The kind of writer’s block that if metaphorically we made a medical association….I’d be headed to the operating room for a partial bowel resection. I can’t get through the block. I don’t think I have the capacity to “unstop” myself. I understand the mental equivalent to more fiber, more fluids, gentle exercise, stool softeners and laxatives. They haven’t worked. And nothing is coming. And the more I try, the more obstinate my creative process has become. I tried tricking myself by doing other creative things: quilting, canning, crafts with my kids. I distracted myself with reading other peoples’ writing. I drowned myself in mindless internet surfing: the sober equivalence to getting drunk and checking out.

I have simplified. I now try to return to the basics and forget I ever wrote a single sentence of fiction. Just do what I know. Do medicine. Do mothering. Get up in the morning. Get through the day. Go exercise. Eat dinner. Go to bed. Simple. Wash, rinse, repeat. Forget that you ever fancied yourself a writer. Tune out the stories chattering through your head. Ignore the main character of the 1st novel who really wants her ending revised and edited. Be realistic. Writing is a dream. It isn’t a reality. Be realistic. Well, I think I got my R word.

R is for realistic

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