I Write and Weep, and Creativity Laughs In My Face

I scanned the list of disarticulate ideas I hastily jotted down in my notes app over the past couple of weeks. Well, calling it a list was a bit of a stretch; the scant two topics were barely fleshed out, unfinished phrases that I told myself I would fully develop later.

• I ran a marathon and..

• The first time I saw him after nine months

After a brief moment of hesitation, I deleted the second option. Though pieces about my past relationship always came easy to me, writing about that again felt like beating a dead horse. And also, no one really cares. I stared back down at my phone, not satisfied with the option I had left. I ran a marathon and. And what? What was it that I even wanted to say about this accomplishment? I racked my brain, trying to bring myself back to the moment I had a light-bulb moment for this idea.

I ran a marathon, and it was awesome.

I ran a marathon, and I wanted to die.

I ran a marathon, and I never want to run again.

I ran a marathon, and no one on this subway knows.

I ran a marathon, and I will never shut up about it.

I ran a marathon, and it ruined my life.

I remember that despite reveling in the throes of my success, I also felt like my brain was melting, gray matter leaking from my ears. I had gone out the same night after my run for my friend’s birthday, not getting home until past midnight. That night, my bed was my coffin and my body was decaying from running 26.43 miles and then dancing for hours on end. With my mind muddled by beers and tequila, and my social battery completely demolished, I grabbed my phone and typed out: I ran a marathon, and..

And… I fell asleep.

I didn’t want to write about that. I remember now that the piece I was envisioning wouldn’t really be focusing on the running aspect of the marathon, but rather the effects it had on me after, physically, mentally, and emotionally. So, that topic was off the table, for now. I stuck it in my back pocket, keeping it as something I would return to once I felt the fervor to really establish the idea into something meaningful. Back to square one.

I’m torn between not pushing myself to write when I don’t have the inspiration to and just forcing myself to sit down for an hour and put something on paper. It doesn’t have to be good. It doesn’t have to change the world. It can be menial, it can have no depth, it can be shitty. But for the love of God, I just needed to create something that wasn’t about running or my ex or reading or the uncomfortable moments in my life or –

What else was there? I slouch down in my chair, staring out the café window defeated. I glare at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen, the blank document screaming at me, you SUCK! I glance to my right at the person sitting next to me, wondering if they noticed that I had not completed anything in the past half hour, the empty page a testament to the state of my mind: devoid of any sentiment, a gaping black hole where any creative ability had been sucked into and never to be seen again.

I try not to beat myself up over this process, but the self-deprecation slowly seeps into my pores, permeating my bloodstream until my fingertips are tingling with failure. Sometimes the words come to me with ease, pouring onto the page by the second and it seems like I will never run out of things to say. Other times, I’m stuck here, willing my brain to think of anything that will spark a story. I feel as if I will never write again, that I’m going to retire my pen and paper and live on without ever writing again. And then, I turn a corner.

A seed is planted in my mind. An idea slowly begins to form, coming out from seemingly nowhere. I take a couple of seconds to dwell on it, mapping out the flow of the piece internally, and I think to myself, this is it. With renewed excitement, I begin typing away, needing to lock down the before it escapes me. My fingers scurry across the keyboard, and I begin to write.