Anyone that tells you writer’s block isn’t real has no idea about the world. Someone may have told me that or maybe I just made it up. But sympathy for writer’s block is akin to sympathy for migraine sufferers. Until you’ve been there, you can’t really emphasize. And then once you’ve been there, you suffer just hearing about it.
I don’t presently possess many written words. And it’s hard to live when the stories can’t easily be told. But sometimes through pain, one finds other mediums. Or revisits old ones.
I want to continue this log in these often dark times, but words are not enough. It’s 2017 after all, where children make videos instead of handwritten book reports, where collaborating on Google slides on a history presentation is what you do when you’re nine.
When I was nine, I painted gouache.
And now I repeat fourth grade.