Have you ever noticed babies when they’re first learning to talk? They don’t have real words, but they begin to mimic the sounds adults make… also, they usually do this mimicking while an adult is talking. When the adult stops talking, the child stops, too. They haven’t quite understood that talking is about exchanging something, they seem to think it’s just another human thing to make noise with your mouth, and they remember they want to try this only when others are moving their mouths.
This, then, is how my writing mind is currently behaving. When I’m reading a real book, or listening to an audiobook, there are half phrases and shadowy stories chattering away, mindlessly behind the real words that someone else has written. It’s more of a feeling than of real words- like those babbling babies, who also are not saying real things, but copy-emoting.
When I’m not reading/listening to the writing of others, my brain is like those gloriously desiccated waste lands in a Cormac McCarthy novel. Not only are they void of story, the landscape remains chalked in featureless dust.
And writing about how I’m not writing is as much as I can manage.
Also, I really love the word desiccated. Ubiquitous, superfluous, redacted, entropic.
My English Composition professor said that writer’s block is not a thing: you just have to lower your standards. So I guess I’ll have to get low.