Experimental Essay: Creative Blocks Are Meant for Playing with

Creative BLOCKS Are Meant for Playing with:

I’m unsure what to write about. All I know is the title. Come to think of it, I can’t even imagine what I would write about. Instead, I find myself writing rewriting expressions of frustration at not knowing what to write about…this so-called “creative block.”

I’ll admit, I’m stumped. Though perhaps I can cleverly stumble my way out of this block, letting loose phrases fly out in inspirational shoots of meaning, or by stacking these sentences in some formal structure, relaying sense through a series of alliterative non-sequiturs. Or onomatopoeias:

Hmmm. Ugh. Rgh. Damnit! Think, think, think harder. Face the block! Look at it. Glare at it. Except it’s not an ice cube, blockhead. You can’t melt it just by fixing it with the heat of your Superman stare. It’s your biggest hurdle; if only you dared to vault the z-axis, you’d land safe and softly on a pad of accomplishment, at last falling in step with what you’re really trying to get at here…

is that maybe this approach is too harsh? Like, instead of glowering at this block, for instance, how about stepping back and gently examining it as if it were an installation of an art exhibit? Try to revolve the corners of the cube; look at it from different angles. Did you catch a glint of substance from its surface? Pause: was it a trick of light, or a mirror, merely reflecting your attempt to absorb and apprehend something of value, without anything truly being there?

I hold this question and contemplate its quirks. Invariably, more questions crop up. Perhaps answering one or several could resolve my block and give me a starting point? Slowly, the questions crowd in, curious, soothing, and nurturing at first, yet gradually growing in volume, they begin holding, no, clutching me, constricting, interrogating, overloading my capacity to choose, paralyzing my motivation, rendering me inert, and leaving me with defeat at the feet of Mt. Uncertainty.

At this point, I must let go. What point is there in the headache, the temple-throbbing vexation at this Wall of Troy, this impediment to any effort at bringing forth form to emptiness, and the ensuing infinite sighs of self-declared failure?

As far as I can tell, there’s no benefit to this. Why keep writing, blanking at each thought, cursing at myself, blinking stupidly at the bleepin’ blinking cursor I see on the screen?

Blah blah block. Blah block block, blahhhhhhhhhhahahahaha. c r e a t i v e waste of time!

I mean, where do these blocks come from in the first place? Who invented the creative block? I would throw cheese at them.

But I stay my hand. The words keep appearing. I can’t stop them, despite my best efforts to keep them away. I am averse. Irritated, I resolve to prevent any text from further populating the page. Yes, let’s create space—essential breathing room, so that I may address the creative block freely, in a vacuum without thought.

To do this, there ought to be some mental barrier, one that helps me get to “P’u” 無¹: a gate at which no thought may pass through. Then, after disemboweling the mind of its constipated contents, I may have a shot at last to vanquish the block once and for all. And after that, I’ll proclaim, “Good riddance to the riddle that has plagued the best and worst woman, man, and writer, dead or alive, with setbacks after setblocks!”

I feel like I’m onto something. A trail. Finally, a lead! That’s what I’ll talk about! That is what I’m talking about! Huzzah! Who gives a shit about the title? This could just be about anything if it’s literally the uncarved block, right? Phooey! Postmodernism in reckless abandon! Symbolic freedom with wild impunity *)UYHD:JLS. NO MORE CONV.ention al gramlar. Piss pot monkey wagon. blasted bologna taste like butt fart barrels LOL FYI @DOOMERS.

Whoops. Close call. Almost lost my grip. Almost lost my tongue and let it run off with my Exegesis². Begs the question: Is tabula rasa too much freedom for a writer? Makes me want to revoke what I said earlier about using the uncarved block as a means of removing creative resistance. I mean, maybe the block is a boon. Maybe it’s that very challenge we need to instill a force of tension to excite innovation. No friction=no energy=no writing. Maybe we couldn’t have it any other way. Is this the Fabergé³ nested within the paradox?

I’m at wit’s end. I still have no idea what to write about. I remain clueless. But do I have to know? Even if I did, I can’t imagine what I would write, except for expressions of frustration at not knowing what to write about. All I know is the title: Creative BLOCKS Are Meant for Playing with.

1. P’u 無 ↩︎
2. The Exegesis of Philip K. Dick ↩︎
3. Fabergé Egg ↩︎