Writers Block

It was another night in the Writing Room. Tonight was free-write evening and as such there was no lesson. Those present would write in silence for an hour followed by a short break and another hour of writing. At the end was the option to share what they had written. That evening I had been tempted as I walked the quiet path to the writing room to take off to a pub where couples gathered and friends talked amicable. Somehow silence and work were unappealing, but I stayed true to my intention which brought me to where I sat staring down the blank page in my lap.

I was sitting in my usual chair, Marianne, our host, who sat to my right was bouncing her knee softly while chewing on the feather end of her quill and an older man sat to my right the only one of us working quietly.  A bead of drool struck Mariannes bodice from her chewing. She did not notice as spit soaked into her shirt. I frowned a little at that.

What have I gotten myself into? I wondered looking down at my own page, which lay blank and unmarked. If I flipped through the pages I’d find each page marked with a neat date at the top right and a few drops of black ink where I held my pen, unsure of how to continue. While I was not drooling, I had been in a similarly sorry state as Marianne. Stuck. 

Antique illustration: Hand writing on blank sheet

Sighing I looked away from the mocking page to the high window across from me which looked out onto the dark courtyard. How is the evening progressing out there? How much nicer would it be to be at a bar or walking the quiet streets of the city with someone than stuck in here with my own thoughts. Today was Saturday. Most people were out which explained why the usual members were absent. It was just myself, Marianne, (and her imaginary friends) and an older man with whom I had seen at free writing night, but had never spoken. 

Unlike Marianne and I, the man was deep in his work. A cold cup of tea sat untouched beside him. His gnarled hand which gripped a well-worn pencil scribbled steadily across his page, never flagging. I began to watch him as Marianne stared at the ceiling mumbling inaudibly. It was polite not to notice her so I watched the man awhile as the long hand of the clock ticked away the hour. 

RING RING RING. The clock rang finally announcing a short break. As the man sat back and reached for his cup I ventured to ask the question on my mind.

“Sir?” I began and the man paused his bristled beard over the thin edge of the china.

“Oh?” He responded sipping what must have been ice cold tea. Straightening and scooting to the edge of my chair I asked my question.

“I have seen you come here many times. You come only to the free writes and each time you write from start to finish, while I and many others pace and fidget and Marianne talks to no one.” I said as Marianne gave me a miffed look and I made a small pleading gesture to her. She stuck out her tongue at me before returning to her sweets. 

“How do you write so smoothly and what are you writing that has your attention so sharp?” I inquired hoping he held some secret that could be shared. The old man smiled and his bush blonde and white brows drifted further over his little eyes. His thick wrinkled lips appeared amused by my enthusiasm.

“Memories. I am writing down my memories.” He answered. It was an answer which perplexed me. Eager for more I pressed.

“Memories? So you are writing a memoir? What is your technique? Do you have a publisher?” I pressed curiously and many more questions bubbled to my lips but I stopped myself before I embarrassed myself. The man was quiet a moment, which unnerved me. I waited eagerly and seeing my impatience the man smiled politely, but it did not reach his eyes. His gaze was almost sad as well as pacifying.

“No lad. I do not think it will be an interesting read enough to be published. As for technique I have none.” The man answered.

“Why do you write it if you aren’t going to have it read?” I asked my confusion doubling.

“I don’t write for anyone’s attention. I write to remember.” He answered and his answer quieted me. I felt foolish, admonished even. Marianne’s plucky voice interrupted my embarrassment and I was glad for it.

“That’s nice, I like that lot. What do you want to remember?” She asked her gaze still flitting about. I had long given up searching for what she was looking at. Flies perhaps?

“Oh, anything can, but mostly people I loved. My wife passed and my sons have moved far away and do not visit any longer. I am the last of the siblings. As the twilight years come it gets hard to remember, so I remember all I can, my favorite memories… and the memories that hurt.” He sighed his old eyes gazing at the paper before him.

“Why would you want to remember painful memories?” I asked recovering from my embarrassment. I could understand pleasant reminiscing, but who wants to remember life’s disappointments. Especially alone and old.

“Ah, you are young and eager to avoid pain. When you are near life’s end all memories become precious. The older I get the harder it is to remember everything. So, I write all I can and reread what I write. It’s helpful when I feel my mind begin to slip.” He murmured.

“I see,” I said softly. I did not see.

“How do you remember to come to the group?” Marianne asked and I blinked. Was his memory so bad?

“I don’t always remember, but I kept your note, Marianne. When I see it I sometimes remember.” He said before turning back to me.

“I have not settled all the problems in my life. My sons and I fought. I was not a good man to them. It is likely I will never fight with them again let alone say that I am sorry. So I tell them I’m sorry on the page. I write down what I remember of them and search for where I went wrong, where I am remembering what I want to remember and not what happened. When I pray at night I ask for forgiveness for each memory where I caused pain and did not realize it. I hope it reaches them.”

“That is…” I grew quiet. What could I say to that?

“If it is hard to remember what do you do when you are writing and can’t remember what happens next?” I asked voice soft. I could not even continue in a story I was making up.

“I move on to what I can remember.” He answered.

“You just move on, even if it doesn’t make sense?” I asked, still a little incredulous.

“It is all I can do. It only needs to make sense to me” He answered. “All those thoughts can keep you from the beginning. Funny that at the end of life I know how to begin and you are who are so near the beginning of your life is struggling to start.” He said and laughed. I did not smile back. Inside I was troubled. The man continued stroking the page.

“What do I want to seem like? How can this make sense? How can I make another like it, or me? These are hard things. Rather ask, What can I preserve? What have I wanted to say, but could not?” The old man continued and I listened well. The fire crackled in the silence and the timer rang signaling the end of our break.

“I will stop my lecturing. Please I must return to work while my mind is fresh.” He said seeming suddenly tired and set down his cup and picked up his pencil.

“Of course. I am sorry for interrupting.” I said earnestly settling back into my chair for the coming hour.

“Don’t be” He said gently and began to write again. The room grew quiet save the snapping of the fire and I settling into my chair and stared at the blank page before me.

What can I preserve? I thought and slowly brought the nib of the quilt of the page where the ink began to stain, even Marianne ceased her tapping.

Two Victorian men (one of whom looks very old fashioned in his breeches and tricorn hat) having an earnest discussion – or perhaps the younger of the two is being chastised or advised! From “Stories For The Household” by Hans Christian Andersen. Illustrations by A.W. Bayes; engravings by Dalziel brothers. Published by George Routledge & Sons Ltd of London, Glasgow, Manchester and New York in 1891.

Writing Prompt:

Write down a memory you’d like to preserve.

Rewrite a memory where you did something that you regret and can now choose another path.

Have a character write down a memory that is precious to them that has not come up in your story so far.

Journaling Prompt:

What thoughts and beliefs keep you from writing?

What is your intention when you come to the page? Does this intention free you or constrain you?

Antique illustration of the common shrew or Eurasian shrew (Sorex araneus), a rodent of the family Soricidae