There appears to be a rather large block located in the forefront of my brain..., otherwise it would not be so difficult to put pen to paper (or as the case may be, fingers to the keyboard). I've decided that I need to take a day and just sit in the library amongst the myriad volumes written by far more talented writers than I can ever aspire to be. There's something about wallowing in the knowledge that I will never live up to the abilities of say, Charles Dickens, that I find helpful. It grounds me... frees me from wishing that the very next words I string together will culminate in a profound piece of literature.
I don't mean to sound cynical or self-abasing--just practical. When I allow myself to run away into a "wishful thinking" kind of world, I do myself a great disservice. My perception leans too heavily into an internal locus of control, and I neglect the fact that there are outside influences upon my abilities, talents, and successes. The stripped down version is that I blame myself for not being everything I wish I could be.
On the other hand, I think writers must occasionally embrace a fictionalized rendering of our world. Imagine the creativity that would be lost if our sole focus was the world in front of our eyes. Every great once in a while, I like to think that with divine inspiration I could produce an outstanding piece of fiction.
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