My name is Greg Pokriki, and I have writer’s block
You’ll have to excuse me. This is sure to be ugly.
You see, over the past few weeks I’ve found myself stuck. There is a block in my brain that is paradoxically draining and infuriating. I lay down with my laptop, set my fingers on the keys, but they remain still. This normally doesn’t happen to me. Normally one minute I am in the shower and the next I’m at my desk in only a towel pounding out a few hundred words. But not as of late. No, there is a block.
That is right. My name is Greg Pokriki, and I have writer’s block.
It all started a few weeks ago. I was lying in bed on Twitter or watching Netflix or something along those unproductive lines and suddenly I had an idea. I practically ran to my laptop and instantly wrote five pages of a memoir that would later be due for a class I’m taking. And they were good pages. I’m talking the first five pages of the final draft of that memoir good. I was very pleased with them. Then, I didn’t look at the memoir for a week or two until I again got the inspiration to write. Again, I sat down and did nothing but write, this time 11 pages. And again, I was happy with the work. Over the next few weeks I went through the revision process of that memoir, finishing several other drafts but to my surprise a bulk of my original content made the cut to the final draft. It is now a memoir that I am very proud of titled Couldn’t Hit A Changeup chronicling the love story between baseball and myself. But following the completion of this project I fell into a slump of sorts (yes, that’s a baseball pun. I’m assuming puns are one of the 12 steps of overcoming writer’s block. I’m still trying to figure it all out).
As of late, I haven’t been able to write. I shouldn’t say that, I have written. That is the problem, actually. You see, as a writer you must write (surprise, I know). I write two posts a week for Pinstripe Alley and a column a week for Advanced Sports Logic. And I have met all my deadlines and finished all the work, but I haven’t necessarily been happy with it.
It’s been an uncomfortable and sobering process. It’s even led me to this point, attempting to explain the unexplainable — probably to the grievance of this blog, my apologies, if you’re still there. Though in a way this blog isn’t suffering for taking the burden of carrying my crisis, but serving it’s purpose. When I first posted to Tap the Greg I asked the questions: Can I, as a creative, simply be tapped for creativity and there it flows? Is creativity as smooth as a keg, pouring whenever you tap it for your pleasure? Or does it stall out, clog, and spit foam? Can it run out or does it stay bottomless?
Obviously it now seems that creativity does, at times stall out, clog, and spit foam. I can reconcile with that, though. If that is part of the bargain, I would still take the deal. It’s the last question that keeps me up at night: Can it run out? I have this possibly irrational fear that one day I’m going to wake up and simply not be able to write. Sentences won’t form, forms won’t arrange, arrangement of thoughts won’t occur. I genuinely think that one-day the best thing that I currently do will no longer exist. That is likely an overreaction and overstatement — I’m a decent writer at best, much better Netflix watcher. But it’s true. I do sometimes question if I can really keep this up for, oh I don’t know, the rest of my professional life. I’m scared to see what my peak looks like because that means I only have the mediocre decline to look forward to. I certainly hope this isn’t it.
Boy, do you see what writer’s block can do? This started at “I haven’t written anything great the past few weeks,” to “I’m done, washed up, over the hill.” It truly is a debilitating thing to be going through — I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I don’t really even know where to go from here. I’m not even sure why I’m writing this? I suppose it’s a subconscious way to break the block? Well, it’s not subconscious anymore. Now, that’s all that I can think of, and the more I think of it the more it sounds about right. I suppose I have found my purpose, and written myself into a conclusion.
That is right. My name is Greg Pokriki, I have writer’s block, and this was all some pathetic ploy to try and write myself out of it. Hopefully it takes.