Everyone suffers from writer's block. I blame the lack of inspiration, but really, what does that mean--where would inspiration come from? Some people might advise you to go out and do something, do something new, just don't write. New experiences certainly have powerful effects (i.e. facilitating falling in love, 21:20), but if you want to stay close to home, I suggest writing about something unimportant: a low priority project, something random, or just phrases.
Prompts from writers' communities help me find that random insignificant thread of thought. A few years ago, one of the major communities was The Alchera Project by Laurie Murray, and it offered prompts that compelled you to think about mundane things in unusual ways. Since Alchera disappeared, a number of communities have erupted to replace it, and I've moved onto one that gives a serious nod to Laurie: Cafe Writing. As Alchera was the beginning (in both writing and myth), I still dedicate my words to Alchera.
"Well," said Pooh, "what I like best-" and then he had to stop and think. Because although eating honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn't know what it was called.Take seven minutes (use all seven, but don't go over), and write on the subject of anticipation. This is a timed exercise and it's expected that it won't be perfect. Any format - fiction, essay, verse - is welcome.
~A. A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh
I bounce on my heels as I wait at the platform. Bounce? No, more like balance. I try to balance on my heels and wonder why balancing on my toes is so much easier. Is it because our body naturally leans forward, that we fold forward? Maybe we're weighted forward. (Though I can attest to a number of women whose butts would scream otherwise.)
Once in awhile, we all lean forward, forward, even more--at the waist, to the side--we lean over the platform and peer into the lighted darkness, hoping to see that light move. Nothing? A collective sigh, then, as we all right our centers and return to bouncing (or balancing) on our heels.
A rumble and a breeze, and we all pace back up to the platform, a little closer this time, pass the yellow line with just one step, maybe two. More leaning, even farther perhaps, until a resigned exhale at the gust of wind and movement that sweep us from behind. Nope. Wrong side. Other direction.
A lady stands defiantly past the line with a newspaper open. Her lack of leaning (forward or back) is obvious, and even when her paper rattles with the rumbling breeze, she refuses to step back. Only when the conductor beeps his horn does she relinquish her place, as if proving how unafraid she is to tip over and die, even accidentally; she simply concedes her way, then steps aboard.
