If You’re Struggling You Probably Need To Take That Break

What You Need To Do When You’re Just Not Into It

Hey, a writer’s life is a tough gig, right? When we’re not duking it out with other writers for a reader’s eyeballs, or using all those rejection letters to repaper the walls of our office, sometimes we simply run out of gas. Sometimes, as I wrote once, we’re just done in.

I wrote Done In almost a year ago back in the day when I thought I was an armor-plated mofo and could beat the freaking Energizer Bunny at its own game. I had myself believing I could keep going, and going, and going…

Until I couldn’t. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the great almighty P.G. Barnett was just a human and not the writing machine I thought I was.

Did not go well, folks. I’ll say this about that. It’s been almost a full year since I experienced that classic writer’s meltdown, and while I’ve toyed with a couple of bouts where I just didn’t feel a strong sense of purpose for writing something, I still managed to sit my butt in the chair and produce.

But here’s the deal.

I knew I was going to have issues, the minute I woke up this morning and rolled out of bed. Not a cliche. I literally lost my balance and rolled out of bed onto the floor. A sure sign it wasn’t going to be the best day ever.

After I got to my knees and gripped the edge of the bed coming face to face with one of our cats who grinned at my clumsiness like the Cheshire in Alice In Wonderland, I flipped it off, got up and stumbled into the bathroom.

I knew this was the start of something special. My brain was in the beginning stages of taking the tumble.

Let the struggling commence.

But here’s the key. I have to admit things were a bit different this time. What a difference a year makes. When I was done in the last time, it simply crushed me, deflated me as quick as those helium balloons I sucked on last week giggling at the munchkin sound of my own voice. Hey, listen to that, I’m a Lollipop Kid.

What? You don’t do that?

Anyway, I couldn’t process any thought other than how simply exhausted I felt. To make an effort to even think about something to write spun up my anxiety levels to the max.

I hated the helplessness, and I hated the empty feeling in my noggin, and what was even worse, I hated myself for hating myself. It was an uncontrollable spiral and probably the most anguished feeling I’ve experienced in quite a while.

Fast forward to today. This morning, the first things I did after a shower (wait that was yesterday) and a shave, (Uh, that too. Come on folks “shelter-in-place, remember?) were to pour myself a coffee, go out on the back porch and sit and listen to nature.

I told myself today is a perfect day to write absolutely nothing to clear my brain of its constant nagging thoughts about attempting to come up with something to write about.

To simply zone out in a vegetative (I don’t meditate well) state and float along thinking nothing. Today was a perfect day to reward me with the bliss of sitting here by myself and the birds and squirrels and the neighbor’s dogs and Just.Do.Nothing.

And so I did. From six AM this morning until this very moment, I didn’t do anything except drink coffee commune with the sights, sounds, and smells of the world around me.

Oh, and make several trips to the bathroom. You try drinking a pot of coffee and tell me you never have to go potty.

Okay, so everybody who reads me knows I’m just a little slow on the uptake. The lesson learned here, which probably takes a conscientious writer a couple of days to understand, took me an entire year.

But learn I did and the beauty of it was last time I fizzled completely out, and it took me the better part of two weeks to get my brain back in its happy place. Today, after only five hours of sipping coffee and contemplating the curious copulation habits of a couple of squirrels in our backyard, the thought of what I wanted to write popped into my head.

Time to go in, sit my butt down, and start writing.

Besides, those two squirrels were really disgusting. I mean, both of them lit cigarettes afterward.

Every single writer in the world reaches a stage of brain exhaustion, a moment where they stare at a blank screen or page and try to force themselves to think and ultimately come up short.

Every writer hits that point in their career when they must either choose to struggle or cut themselves some slack and take a mental health day, or a week, month, or year. However, long it takes to fix what ails us.

If you catch yourself struggling a lot, you probably need to take that break. Don’t wait until you topple and fall apart mentally.

Take it from me, unless you have a heck of a lot of superglue, getting all the pieces of your brain stuck back together may take a long, long time.

And like me, you may discover you’re missing a piece or two.

Thanks So Much For Reading

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