Bad days: A poem about fiction writing in the absence of inspiration

Bad days

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That night the words won't come
Like untrained animals
They are wayward, prodigal
Perambulatory weasles
Spineless vermin

The writer's page lies still
Dead on arrival
No pulse, no breath
No heartbeat, no movement
Died dead, eyes wide open



About this poem


This poem is about that dire mood when you have a story to tell, but words won't come. Or words come, but you have no story to tell and so they flail about, orphaned and lonely. So many things must align to produce fiction: the desire and the time to do it; a quiet, uninterrupted space; an idea of a story and how it's going to play out; and a willingness to put words on the page even if they feel stilted and painful like conversation at a bad cocktail party. You simply must proceed, or you must acquiesce to writer's block and put that day to bed--stymied, beaten, nothing achieved. While I have no advice except patience, I offer a shoulder to cry on and a nod of recognition that it's hard sometimes. But it does make the journey sweeter when you finally break through.

Thank you for reading. If you have a personal story to share about your creative writing journey, I'd love to hear it.

Are you a writer seeking community or help with your writing? If so, please check out The Writers' Block on Discord.

Image credit: Pixabay

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