Writer's Block

For about fifteen minutes I stared at a blank Microsoft Word document, watching occasional letters sprawl across the screen before my pinky finger backspaced it into a void once more. My teacher would be expecting a five to ten page story from me tomorrow, and I sat with my fingers on the keys, unmoving, just twelve hours away from the deadline. Procrastination is not a very favorable quality of mine, but on most occasions my best work comes from the pressure of tomorrow’s deadline. This occasion was, apparently, not one of them. The one idea I needed fled from me like a fish that had already figured out the whole hook-and-bait plot against him.

My thoughts strayed towards anxiety as I imagined the likelihood of turning in no paper at all. I could see my teacher’s face as she came expectantly to collect my paper. She would sort of raise a brow and purse her lips before truly coming to terms with the fact that I, Jenna Martin, had no paper to give her. Her eyes would proceed to tell me how much I’d let her down and how much I’d just ruined my future. I could see the disappointment on her face as she determined an alternate student’s work to submit to the contest. My whole class would wonder how I’d come this far just to throw it all away. “She just gave up,” they’d assume. “Maybe she didn’t think her writing was good enough to win Best Creative Fiction.” My future as a writer was blinking like the cursor on my Word document. The book signings, the reviews, and the enormous paychecks were all wobbling off the edge of a pinpoint. I would be another lost writer. My words would remain unread and unheard.

Another half hour ticked by, and I still sat with my eyes and fingers prepared to latch onto that fish and reel it in. The sun had set a long time ago, and my eyes found themselves darting to the time at the upper right hand corner of my computer screen: 2 AM. I fought the haziness that caused excessive blinking and yawning by resorting to a twice-a-year energy drink. The idea would come; it had to.

I flipped through the pages of some short stories we’d read in class, hoping for inspiration in other writers’ words. But where I looked, I saw words that ran about like black ants. I couldn’t grab onto any word; there was no inspiration, no hook. Where was that million-dollar idea that I needed? I was sure that JK Rowling was just sitting around one day when she came up with the idea for Harry Potter. Why couldn’t I get an idea like that too?

Closing another book, a word suddenly popped into my head: self-glorification. What kind of hook was that? I anxiously set about tossing that strange epiphany aside. That wasn’t something I could write about, or wanted to write about. It was nonsensical.

I heard someone laughing at me.

Pride, they whispered. Who is your God, anyway?

I figured my mind was just tired. I punched down keys mindlessly, melding any sentence I could.

Who is your God?

My sentence was weak and amateurish like the beginning of any generic fairytale. Tears blurred my vision before they sank down my cheeks. I was frustrated. I attempted to block out the Voice, but my tears broke down that barrier.

I Am.

It was a stubborn breakdown, but I knew the Voice right away. He was pointing at me, reminding me who my God really was. The idea of success was acting as my God, building up a future wrought in wealth and fame. It was false success, the definition a prideful society had written. It took no account of the awesome fact that God had given me the ability of writing in the first place. I was so impressed by recognition of my own abilities, not the ones given to me to glorify Him.

I’m reminded of the words of Martin Luther, who said, “The God of this world is riches, pleasure and pride.” It took a few hours of writer’s block for me to identify the god I was really worshipping. I’d always believed in God, but I was putting Him off until I really got a shot at success. After the book was done, then I’d return to His loving arms. (Or would I have?) God gives us present success, to glorify Him now. After all, He does promise even more than lot of little zeros on a big paycheck. He gives us everlasting life with Him. That night I realized that I really do want that more than anything.

Now, if I’m ever experiencing another moment where words escape me, I can ask myself, “Is this for me or for God?” How amazing it is that a little bit of writer’s block could make me see so much after being blinded for so long.