A/N: I'm using this as my creative leak, so maybe I'll get more publicity, idk. But letting you know that I'm not sadistic before I start, I just have a creative high today and need ventilation. (*kicks book) And am NOT doing math homework... ///

This is also based on a real life story, but maybe not as drastic. This is basically my reflection on events in my freshmen year of high school. Don't be offended by this, it's a creative VENT and I'm not SAD I'm completley happy! SUGAR GO LUCKY HAPPY THAT ONLY HAPPENS WHEN YOU'RE FINALLY HOME AFTER BEING AT SCHOOL FOR HOURS ON END!! >.< I hate being in drama, but it's so fun I can't stop... We're there until 6 or 7 at night working. I have no time for writing.



~Upon Red Rivers~

Upon red rivers do I sit, on the banks of tears left unshed. I lust for the feeling of creativity, I shy away from its succumbing tones. I sit with a broken notebook, shattered memories, torn dreams, and the cracked plastic from being thrown across the room when I screamed in bloody agony.

On red rivers do I sit, reminising, contemplating, or just thinking, whatever you choose, of the vocabulary I have yet to grasp, of the words that are blocked in my throat as I mutter utter senselessness. The pen leaks, and even though I write in black or purple or green, the ink stains my hands red like the blood that's flowing from my soul, like the many cuts on my heart that seize to stop. I take my only comfort from the few words that are formed from the run of ink...blood. There's enough blood for me to write a book in this darkening red, and yet, the ideas are what run short.

Cruel are these rives. My throat is dry, my eyes are wet, and I don't know why. No one would understand, because no one can. They may not be competent, or just on the "outside". I loathe the people on the outside, for being so utterly happy, and at the same time, I envy their simplicity. They take the scraps of happiness that god has to offer, and what for? To suffer endless days and endless nights? I'd rather be me than be them.

And so on this red river do I sit. Rather being myself than anyone else or any image someone else has forced on me, I sit on blood red rivers with my broken notebook, my shards of ideas, and my bleeding pen.

Why? Why must I sit on these rivers? If I hate them so much, why, you may ask, don't I look away? Why don't I stand up, leave the scraped utensils in my hands on the banks, and just start over again. This is why you don't understand. If I did buy a new notebook, a new set of pens, found new ideas, I'd only find myself once again at these red rivers.

It's a block I must overcome. It's a hurdle I need to jump, a wall I need to climb. It's a monster, its a demon, its my savior, my only comfort, my only life. How can I throw away something that has the largest sentimental value in my life? Haven't I long ago decided I was a writer? Isn't it my only support, my only foundation, my only salvation away from the harsh reality? Everything in my books, every word I write affects my life. I feel like no one can understand, because on these red rivers, I sit alone.

I would use the pens on the pure white paper until they were both tainted, shreds of my handwriting tossed all around the room where I sit. I cry out in anguish, only hoping to continue. I can't continue, not in the hole I've created for myself. When I look up to what I was, only wishing to be back there. But I know, I would have to climb out of the hole, overcome that obstacle. I can't do that. Don't you see? It's why I'm on the red rivers.

Red rivers of blood.

I'm a vampire. All I am allowed to do is suck the life out of each of my ideas, each bit of inspiration, until it turns insipid, and I must throw it away. I try to write, but nothing good comes from it. The characters are bland, the plot is faulty, the detail is too much telling not enough showing, the timing is wrong, the book is stupid, my mind is telling me to stop, and I can't. I must suck the life from each bit of inspiration, savor the taste in my mouth as it rolls across my tongue. Once it stops, once it becomes inspid, once it biodegrades, once it vanishes, I realize how wrong it was and rip it to shreds. With blood dripping from my mouth, with tears dripping from eyes, with my sanity dripping in small drops, one after another leaking from what I once called me.

How am I supposed to continue like this?

It hurts to stand, it hurts to sit, it's hard to try, it's hard to fail. It's hard to live, it's hard to die, it's hard to ignore, it's hard to empathisize. It's difficult to read, it's difficult to write. I can't find the inspiration, I can't find modivation, I can't find my salvation. I want that salvation, I want to live, I want to fly, I want to feel every emotion, every character, every event under my fingers and racing from my pen. I want to live in the momment, I want the idea to stay fresh. I want for the world to open up, I want to climb out of my hole. I want to be able to stand without being pushed down, I want to be able to keep my notebook in hand, pen behind my ear, and ideas swarming in my mind.

I want to leave this blood red river, I want to be in the worlds of my own creation.



~I want to get past writer's block.~



Funny.

Some people say that writer's block is the refusal to write, the block of creativity. No. Writer's block isn't the common cold writer's get when they can't think of one little idea, it isn't the inability to find that one word. It's not the time when you still have hope that what you have will triumph, will succeed, will get published.

No.

Writer's block is something completley out of your league. Envy your simplicity I do. If you quit after that minor illness you are nothing but weak, and not a writer. Pick up that perfectly good three dollar pen of yours and start writing. It's not writer's block, but a simple rock in your path. Are you really going to let that stop you?

No.

Writer's Block is cancer, it's ammonia, it's the inability to do anything about it. It's the sheer thought of not being able to succeed no matter what you try. But you can't give up, you keep trying, keep failing. It's not the lack of modivation or inspiration, it's the misuse of them. It's when you pick up and drop books, maybe up to ten in a week, only to get that feeling of complete control for a meer hour, maybe a day?

It's when it's your only life, your only hope. It's when writing prevents you from doing anything and everything in life. It's when you become so apathetic when writing that you attempt drastic things in order for you to get that Writer's High for just that one hour, that one minute, that one second.

It's when life comes crumbling down, when you don't feel like continuing, because you can't. When you bleed just to know you're alive, write only to know that you still can, when it's obvious that you can't.

Writer's Block.

It's the inability to stop. It's the inability to go. Forever stuck

Forever stuck
Upon Red Rivers.

~owari~





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Closing notes: Since this is based on real life, I guess I should give you update. I'm currently working on a book, started it April of 2005, and I'm still kicking, trying to get the last book of my trilogy tied up. I'm editing, life is good. But I was pissed by this one writing guide that said writer's block didn't exist and that it was just your refusal to write. I had to say something.

This piece is dedicated to a friend of mine (5) who also writes, and she knows who she is. ~_^ And it was written also for FaintVerse who wanted to read some of the stuff I write, sorry if it was so morbid/sadistic.

Keedokee. Other than that, funness I guess. (*throws hand up into air) Onto math homework (yeah...right...)

Kiko812
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