Writer’s Block

I tore my back up. I’m not quite sure exactly what happened, but I think it had something to do with me stuffing a 50 oz water bottle in my backpack, which slouches low, and spending a few hours with it sitting there. A few days prior I stuffed another 50 oz water bottle in my bag along with a digital camera. I’m having difficulty breathing from the tightened muscles and spent the evening half naked, walking around my room slathering icy hot on my back. Later I was painfully stretching into yoga poses and kneading the tender sections with my knuckles.

I took a nap, curling like a shrimp in my blankets. The pain started to ease, but I could feel a knife in one spot that wouldn’t stop cutting in. I didn’t care, I wanted my sleep, so I continued making strange shrimp shapes around my bed until I was rested. When I woke up there was another massive slab of icy hot for my back and then I went out to get cans of iced coffee for the next morning.

I have writer’s block. Proper fucking writer’s block. I don’t think I’ve experienced this type of block before. I started a beautiful entry (maybe my best yet), but I’m unsure of how to complete it. There’s something thrilling about the block because it feels like I’m crossing into new territory with my writing. My standards are getting higher and challenges are increasing. Work is creating more work.

I got a message from a friend on New Year’s Eve (my Spicy Pisces). “Hope you get published in 2025 girl!!!!” That’s a goal I want to move towards. The entry that I started, that I currently have writer’s block over, signals to me that the potential is setting in for longer, more complex essays.

I was thinking about romantic relationships today and thought about people atrophied by their emotional realities, stunned by a darkness that never stops emerging. I thought about writing about the tiny broken emotional worlds of New York City. New York is interesting because there is so much gloss on everything. Sex, money, power. Everyone’s brain wants to get in proximity to those energies to vindicate their being. Years ago my ex boyfriend threw me in a Central Park Junior Suite in the Midtown Four Seasons for a couple weeks. I found the bill later, a cool $34,000. It was just a room with furniture.