The Plight of Hank Moody

I'll set the scene for you: Here I am, sitting in front of a computer. There's coffee in my cup. I've closed out of Facebook and cued up Tool on YouTube. There's a Word document open and I'm set to start writing. My fingertips start pounding on the keys and I instantly start creating literary magic. Things are going smashingly...until I stop. Three paragraphs in.

People think that writer's block is simply the lack of ideas to write about. That's definitely a big part of it. But it's also equally the lack of desire to continue writing. Struggling to come up with the urge to write is just as strong, if now stronger than the desperate search for words after months of searching for the right plot or character.

It takes a certain type of broken soul to constantly generate the lives of others.  Not in the tormented, hell-bent, solely narcissistic creatures that Hollywood portrays writers to be. Well, certain ones are, I'm not going to lie. I do share a trade with those who's sole focus is themselves and the image they love to project upon others. But, one trait, one universal characteristic that we all share is that we have the lives, fully developed people-entire worlds, even, living constantly inside our heads. And yet...there's times when those worlds disappear. Just vanish into the fog of day-to-day existence. Slip into the fold of mundania that can be innocously necrotic to the creative juices. Which is how the demise of many a novel and short story comes to be. The Great Fount of Literary Brilliance will sometimes just completely dry up and refuse to flow. Three paragraphs in. And, this the writer is truly blessed and lucky, they will know the circumstances in which their purpose decides to fly the coop. Most, including myself, are rarely, if ever, that fortunate.

There is a show that used to be on Showtime (it's now on Netflix-where I discovered it) called Californication. The main character is Hank Moody, a one hit wonder writer who's book became a big movie. The show takes place as Hank is going through a severe bout of writer's block. His "wife" (although they never got married) is in a strong committed relationship with another man and this devastates Hank Moody to the point of putting a bullet in his Muse. He, quite simply, can't write. He has talent and the vocabulary. The fan base to propel him back into the literary limelight whenever he wishes. He just...can't. His life is in perpetual turmoil (most of which is admittedly self-inflicted) and he longs for the ways and days of yesteryear. When he had everything that he ever wanted. And didn't realize exactly what he had until he lost it all. And, future reference, if you do check out the show-the first season is undeniably the best.

I know the plight of Hank Moody all to well. I sympathize with him and his complete lack of ability to do the one thing that he was put on this Earth to do. He doesn't lack the words (he's incredibly articulate and verbose), he just cannot translate that into putting forth, once again, the Great American Novel. He's suffering from, for lack of a better term, literary constipation. He's spinning the wheels of his fantastic lexicon and wasting in on the pointless diatribes on living in LA. I know his struggle all too well (although, I don't live in LA and have zero desire to) and I can honestly say that I am doing the same thing (albeit his...poor decisions I do not, and would not, ever consider pursuing). It's not that I lack the desire to create. I just can't. I love writing-don't get me wrong, but I know all what it's like to have life eternal swallowing up any and all desire to forge literary greatness.

Which brings me to this blog. If I ever had a digital lifeline, this is it. I had two other blogs, but this one is my most honest one. I said in the beginning that it would be no-holds-barred. I meant that, not only for your benefit, but my own. The complete ability to have full-on candor is, refreshing. A breath of fresh air. I love that I can come on here and be contemplative. Or vent. Or both. The fact that I can come on here and the words don't escape me. There is no cause for them to flee just as I'm reaching for them. It is here, on this blog, that I can finally and fully become the writer I always dreamed I would become.

Which also brings me to my (and Hanks' dilemma). Write a blog is good and all, but it's also a world away from writing a novel. Giving birth to a creation that the world entire will judge (good or bad), is paralyzing, to say the least. Calling or not, when the time comes to actually do what I was put on this Earth to do...I choke. Plain and simple. I get all up in my head (and not in the good, creative way) and I begin to overthink. Unintentionally overwhelm myself. Which is the breeding ground of doubt. Which is surefire death of all literary greatness.  Or even just mediocrity. Either way, I become my own worst enemy. And, thus, the inevitably cycle begins once again.