Writers block – don’t believe in it, so what am I feeling?

I’ve written before I don’t believe in writers block.

I still stand by that statement, but this week, this month, I feel I need to modify it slightly.

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My Inspiration at the moment is in custody in a filthy interrogation cell somewhere in my brain. It has turned from a meek and helpful offsider to some kind of moody droog who feels compelled to spit on the floor every thirty seconds. My Will(power) is playing the good cop, but the time for peaceful negotiation is fast coming to an end:

Will(power) plays all compassion (‘You’ve had a rough time lately’, ‘You’re distracted’, ‘You don’t have to blog/write/think every day’) until the charges are read out again:

“Isn’t it true that two weeks ago when you were out working at one of your cafes of choice and the manager came up to you and asked ‘How is the book writing coming along?’ and you asked him, ‘How did you…?’ and he said, “I was there the night you won your award.” “Ah,” you said. “That’s cool you remembered. The writing is going really well, thanks.”

And you knew this was a big, fat lie. Because you haven’t done any ‘real’ writing for a long time now.

{Inspiration moves around uncomfortably in his seat}

Will(power) continues: “And isn’t it also true that during the week of the Melbourne Writers’ Festival, when you were asked if you were working on anything at the moment, you told another fib and said yes you were?”

{Inspiration looks up, gives Will(power) the finger, and remains silent for the rest of the interview}

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Yes, this is how I’m feeling. Rather like a bloated fraud. You see, there were lovely parts of the Melbourne Writers’ Festival, parts that I will keep locked in my chest, personal and special, for a long time. Sitting at a dinner table with Arnold Zable sitting across from me, and he asked after my book and what it was about; not only that, he listened to my answer. Sitting not five metres away was Robert Drewe. There were a whole host of other names I could drop too; names you don’t know, names you do. Names you will, because there are just so many talented people in the land.

But apart from that, there was the self-promotional aspect that is never too far, I know, underneath the surface of such occasions. I collected a nice handful of business cards from people who just walked up to me at a party, handed the card over, and walked off again. You can guess where I put those babies. The recycling.

I’m not knocking marketing machinations per se. In fact, I find them queasily interesting, from an intellectual standpoint. Neither have I forgotten for a second that this is precisely what I’m doing lately. I guess the romance is gradually being peeled back from the glass; the rose colour reveals a dark opacity, in truth.

After all’s said, after this post and several others I could (and may) write in a similar vein, the overwhelming feeling I’m experiencing at the moment is a kind of fear.

Fear of what? I don’t know. What’s to come with the book, what may not come, and every scenario in between. Classic anxiety.

There’s a place I go
When I’m alone
Do anything I want
Be anyone I wanna be
But it is us I see
And I cannot believe I’m fallin
That’s where I’m goin
Where are you goin
Hold it close won’t let this go

Dream catch me, yea
Dream catch me when I fall
Or else I won’t come back at all
                                                                                           Newton Faulkner, ‘Dream Catch Me’

I just hope my dream catches me okay.