Writers Block

I'm a journalist. I'm a news reporter, a storyteller by nature. I remember I wrote my first book when I was ten. It was a silly little book about witches handwritten in a blue spiral journal with a pink flower on the front.

In seventh grade, I took a writing class and wrote many stories. Every time I turned in a new story, my teacher would praise it as one of the best in the class. As the holidays approached, we wrote our own version of the Christmas Carol. I had just recently lost my grandma and wrote a really deep story about her physically being with us in the past and her spirit being there in the present and future.

I always loved writing, but this was the moment I realized I'm actually pretty good. My teacher was a strict grader and this paper earned me the highest grade she ever handed out.

When I started eighth grade, I joined a journalism class. From that moment on, I was a journalist. From taking pictures at the football games to writing features highlighting different groups, I worked for the school paper and yearbook until I graduated.

Storytelling took a whole new form for me. Not only was I telling stories, but I was telling real stories about real people. I quickly learned that every person I ever met had an incredible story behind them and it was my life goal to hear every single one of them.

Now at 26-years-old, I hear people's stories every day. Not only do I hear them, but I also get to interview them, dig deeper, find the gems, and then share those gems on television for everyone to see.

It's an incredible job and I am grateful every day that I get to do it.

I have met some incredible people and have heard inspiring stories. I've also sat with broken families and cried with them as they told me about loved ones who'd been killed. I've questioned politicians, business owners, health experts, and activists. I've told stories as light as alpacas getting their annual haircut and as serious as police shootings.

Then I've come home and worked on books, short stories, and poems.

I love what I do and I love being able to do it.

Except I'm not always able to do it.

Sometimes I get stuck, looking at a blank screen completely unsure where I want my story to go or even how to start it.

Every day for a week, I've sat down to work on the next chapter of my book. The first day I sat at my desk in front of my laptop with a glass of iced tea. I sat there for about an hour and had written one sentence. Granted I did rewrite the sentence about ten different ways, but in the end, all I had was the one sentence.

Day two was similar. So was day three. On the fourth day, I didn't even get the one sentence out. I just stared at my blank screen, willing the words to come flowing out of me but it never happened.

By the fifth day, I decided I needed a change. When I got off work, I headed over to The Coffee Bean, my favorite shop in the whole city. I sat down with the expectation to walk out with at the very least two pages written. This did not happen.

Want to know what did happen? I ate a blueberry muffin, drank a caramel macchiato, and wrote nothing. I watched a couple on what appeared to be the first date at the table next to me. I listened to them answer trivial questions like their favorite colors or animals. The two were cute together, I had to admit. The way she giggled when he spoke and how his nervous stutter seemed to fade as their coffee cups emptied.

I watched them for a while, eavesdropping on their conversation and hoping to get a spark of inspiration from them. Instead, I just had the experience of watching two people begin what I figure will be a beautiful love story. While it was a wonderful experience, my book is about a tragic breakup so this did nothing to get my creative juices flowing.

Frustrated I left the shop, mentally sending the two positive vibes for their journey together. On the walk home, I wracked my brain trying to figure out my couple's next move. I knew where I wanted them to end up, but I had no idea how to get them there.

The story was about a toxic relationship, a bad breakup, and a journey of self-discovery. But how will my characters ever discover themselves if I don't know who they are anymore? I was about three chapters in and began to consider re-writing the whole thing since this story seems to be at a dead end.

In the beginning, the characters sat next to me at my desk and told me about their lives. I really knew who the couple was. I felt their pain as I wrote every argument. I also felt a strong love that kept them coming back together. I knew everything about them. I knew what they were thinking, what they were wearing, who ate what.

I lost that now, like the couple I created decided they didn't want to break up and take that journey of self-discovery. Instead of waiting for me when I came home from work to tell me more of their tales, they left me alone to go and explore their relationship without me. I have no idea what they're doing and no idea what to write next.

When I walked through the front door to my tiny apartment, I sat back on my couch and wondered if this story really is dead or if I just needed a break.

Maybe if I stepped away from the book for a few days, it'll take some of the pressure off me and my characters will come back. I haven't shared the story with anyone yet, so I'm not on a deadline that would be thrown off by not writing for a day.

How would that even work though? Take a break from my book? My brain was doing this weird dance of not knowing what to write, but also not being able to stop thinking about the story. Somehow my brain was empty, yet full at the same time.

I grabbed my phone and turned on some rock music. The phone doesn't quite get loud enough to drown out my thoughts, but it worked as the soundtrack to a shower.

Baths never interested me much, but there was something about a shower that always made me feel better when I was down or frustrated. The water washing over me seems to take all my worries and wash them away, bringing them down the drain with everything else. In a bath everything just floats around you, soaking into your pores and not offering any type of release.

The rest of day five was spent the same way, trying to clear my mind and not think about the book. But it kept coming back to me like a toddler who needed attention but wasn't sure what exactly it wanted.

On day six I folded my laptop up and put it above my kitchen cabinets. I was not going to think about the book or writing in any way. Instead, I made two bags of popcorn (yes, two) and settled into my couch. I scrolled through the numerous apps on my tv trying to find something to watch.

Twilight looked promising but the toxic relationship between Bella and Edward reminded me of my book so I scrolled on. After a few minutes of flipping between Netflix and Hulu, then HBO Max, then back to Netflix I decided on a movie. Everything seemed to have a relationship or some trait that brought me back to my book until I found the perfect movie with no love story whatsoever.

I clicked on Jaws and spend the next two hours watching sharks terrorize people on the screen. As an animal activist, I always thought sharks had a bad reputation in the media. Why are they always portrayed as scary killers who infest waters and eat humans? Has anyone ever considered maybe the sharks live in the waters and the humans are the scary killers who come into their homes on their big boats to kill and eat their fellow fish?

Maybe someday I would write a story about why humans are the monsters, not the animals. Great, I was thinking about writing again. I looked over to the kitchen where the black laptop was peaking out from above the cabinets. No, I told myself I was going to take a whole day off and I was going to force myself through the day without trying to write.

Day seven I woke up excited. I immediately ran to the kitchen in my pajamas and grabbed my laptop, ready to write.

I opened the site I've been typing my story into, full of hope and ready to get back into it. But then....nothing.

Nothing came out of me. Not even one word.

Frustrated, I opened a new tab. I needed to write, even if it wasn't adding to the book.

I stared at another blank page, this time with no expectations. Before I knew it, the words were flowing out of me again and I started typing quickly.

I'm a journalist. I'm a news reporter, a storyteller by nature.