The Blog Block
When I first discovered blogging, a few years ago, I saw a blog post everywhere I looked. I was a joyful blogging dervish, spinning stories from my life and work faster than I could record them. Enjoying the freedom blogging afforded for writing, I felt I had finally found a space, a comfortable space, and a way to write about my work, numerology, cycles, cycle guides, readings, spirit visits, dogs and dog walking, and even the trees and flowers, not to mention the people, of my life.
This happy blogging state lasted about a year. During that time I blogged (often only in my head), had loads of fun and felt terribly creative. Then, one day, it hit: the Blog Block.
In retrospect, it wasn’t so much a hit, it was more like a slow slide, until the Block had me pinned and, as hard as I tried, I could no longer reach the blog space.
Time moved on, and I became so familiar with the weight and feeling of the Blog Block that I only noticed it occasionally.
A close friend mentioned it several times, and on those occasions, I would squirm and wiggle for a little while, trying to get out from under the Blog Block. But it was a heavy beast, that Blog Block, and it had settled comfortably on my consciousness, and it was not about to move.
Until today. . .
My new website went up, and although it’s not perfect yet, I felt pleased with it.
Then, friends and clients began to point vigorously at the absence of new blogs in my blog space.
Finally, I, too, became aware of only Old Blogs on my bright new site.
Something happened in that moment of realisation, something like a jolt, or a lurch, and in the twinkling of an eye, the Blog Block began to slide aside. Inside of me, something stretched and roared, and the block slid more rapidly, and the next thing I knew, I was searching for a computer, pen and paper, or even an iPad—something to write with. . . and here I am.
There is a lump in the middle of my office floor that’s melting rapidly—when I was finally able to expel that block, it looked like an oversized ice cube. It’s melting fast and I am about to fetch an ice pick to deal with what remains. . . as soon as I finish writing this blog.