Blocked out

... So here was the problem: 

As a writer, I've seldom experienced writer's block. Never, in fact. I've had bouts where a scene was problematic and I'd brood over it for days, sulking over long walks or scribbling "what if's," like trying different keys to see if one of them will turn the lock. I've felt cringes when that little inner voice said, "Something about this scene is just not right," and there would be more long sulky walks and impatiently doodled questions ("What's wrong with this scene? Why doesn't it feel right?"). Sometimes I'd write them on Post-it notes and stick them to my bathroom mirror ("What does Jeb Creel really want?"), because I didn't want to lose sight of the problem. I would "bird-dog" it and solve it.

But I've never had writer's block. I've written all my life — poems, short stories, or little exercises where I mimicked another writer's voice, just to see how it felt. (Was my emerging "voice" more like Dashiell Hammett or Pearl S. Buck? Caleb Carr or Tama French?) I've written for business, and for this insane other career I'm aiming for: to be a successful middle-aged novelist — or die trying. (Most of my friends are planning their retirements and I'm hoping to break into a new industry, where — merely to survive — you learn to be cool about rejections, as matter-of-fact as a bastard at a family reunion). 

Then, a few days ago, a friend of 20 years died. 




And another problem presented itself: as a woman, I'm not an easy crier. I seldom go to pieces, "dissolving into tears," as it's sometimes written. I hold it in, and the grief seeps like rain falling on a laundry line — gently, by degrees, but drenching all the same. I don't cry because usually I write about it. 

And that's when it got scary, because suddenly I couldn't cry and I also couldn't write. Instead, I spent hours sitting still and silent, thinking about his death, the painful suffering of his last few days, and the recent deaths of other friends, about having dear old Jack put down last summer, about other types of death — not merely physical, but emotional and spiritual. 

It felt as if something inside me was being irretrievably borne away on a wide and private Sargasso Sea. A lot of my energy was going towards navigating giant waves of grief, yet I still believed in the story I was working on, and I'd started notebooks on three new book ideas that need research to help flesh out plot ideas. But as for writing a single line...? Nothing. Zip. Nada. Once a fluent activity, writing felt as much fun as having to compose a thank-you note to someone I didn't like, for a gift I never wanted.

That's when the real terror behind grief set in. Journalist and world peace advocate Norman Cousins once said, "Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live." And I thought, It could all end right here. Right now. I just walk away and give up on this thing, and nobody would blame me for doing it.