It is the summer after my ninth grade year, and despite the happiness of the summer, I am suffering from writer's block.
13 July 2002
from This is a Broken World, Dr. Nbook 37
The actual writing would be easy. All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that had been running inside his head, literally for years. At this moment, however, even the monologue had dried up.
-from 1984 by George Orwell
Yes, the writing in itself is easy. Think about it. How do you write? You just put pen to paper, and move that pen across the paper in such a way that it creates words, as I am doing now. How hard can that be?
It's quite easy when you have something in mind to write about. But when you suffer from writer's block, all of this... monologue... disappears. I have something that's been bouncing around in my mind for years, but somehow I just can't get it out. I don't even know what it is. I just know that it's in there somewhere.
You know what? I think it's still there. I'm still trying to extract it. Extracting it--squeezing every inch of my brain for some semblance of prose, something worth writing down and even stuff that isn't but I feel like writing down anyway--is the hard part. I see why so many people have given up paper journaling for online journaling. Besides the obvious advantages, it's so much easier to take back what you write, despite cached pages and archive.org. I could never bear to part with my Dr. Nbooks, no matter how dull and uninspiring they are. They're part of my life; they're my creation; they're part of who I am.