The Writer Who Doesn't Write

Somewhere beyond the patchwork of experiences we call self, flows a force. It belongs to none, but seeks expression through all. The task of the writer is to feel it and allow himself to be a conduit. The burden of the writer is to shape it into its finished form.

But what becomes of the writer who doesn’t write?

The writer struck by a fear that wears many masks. Emptiness, perfectionism, procrastination — a lingering anxiety born of resistance. The force comes knocking on the door, but he’s locked himself away in a vain attempt to avoid his responsibility.

The whispers float through the walls and rest in his spirt. Still, he resists.

He turns up the noise. Flooding his system with distractions.
But whispers grow into bold announcements. The voice cannot be silenced. It lives his cells and weaves into his breath. It consumes him until nothing else remains.

And then, in an instant resistance melts away. The edges of self dissolve into the all. Impressions find form and suddenly, without effort or will, words assemble into golden bricks, paving a path toward the feeling of home.

Then reality returns. A jarring, sudden arrival to the heaviness of form.

The light dims and the golden path is a shadow of itself. Bricks askew and poorly laid, it meanders and sprawls with no beginning or end — a poor copy of what he just saw. The magic of the ethereal now distorted by the messiness of form. But he remembers what it was, how could he forget? It was burned within him. So, what now?

He knows what he’s meant to do. He knows his responsibility. But instead, he chases the high, diving into the dream and returning with memories and artefacts he’ll never share.

In dreams we find freedom, but it’s a freedom we can’t hold.

The task of the artist is to make the ephemeral last. To turn impressions into matter. To forgo the immediate pleasure of experience and dedicate himself to making a moment last a lifetime.

It’s a responsibility I’ve avoided. I’ve selfishly hoarded impressions, refusing the call to give them form. The truth is this — for too long I’ve rented out my words like a cheap whore. I’ve honed my craft but hidden my voice. My words’ worth have always been measured by the revenue they generated. A clear and present metric of success.

But how do I measure the nebulous? Yet another justification.

It’s time to stop shirking my responsibility. I’ve spent a lifetime breathing in impressions and breathing out sketches — vignettes and fragments that never find completion. Promising possibility abandoned the moment the spark fades. Drawers full of what ifs and what could’ve beens.

Possibility has no end. But finishing is final. The infinite becomes definite. Each choice made along the way closes off what could have been and cements what is. No more potentials, no more open loops, just hard, uncompromising material.

This is the blessing and the burden of the artist — to receive inspiration but be burdened with the responsibility of making something of it. To make choices along the way and allow it to become whatever it’s going to be. But the artist avoids the task. He prefers to stay in the comfort of the womb, where possibilities are endless and loops are never closed.

But it’s time to grow up. To stop chasing the highs of creation and embrace the craft of completion. This is the proof.