Storytellersunplugged

Voodoo Magic

This month I have a real problem. Because I’m going through a Hellish patch of writer’s block, how can I write about writing if I can’t write? I’ve been told to either just wait it out, do something else, or force myself to sit in front of the computer until my irises are ready to melt. I have to admit, the latter remedy has produced dribs and dribbles. I’m working on a second novel, and every few days I add a few more paragraphs. But for someone who used to be able to sit down and write non-stop for hours, this is complete torture. Lately, I find myself nostalgically perusing my collection of short stories and plays, wondering: did I really write this stuff? It doesn’t seem possible. Especially since I’m now convinced my brain has become as smooth and wrinkle-free as a blob of silly putty. Perhaps I’d never really written anything at all, but instead had been possessed by the spirit of a dead writer. All I know is that even as I’m writing this, I can feel my eyes growing heavier. The air-conditioner is buzzing in the background, in tandem with the buzzing in my head, and the only time I feel enlivened is when I think about the possibility of food. And I’m not even hungry.
So, either my muse is trying to tell me it’s time to shift over to writing cook books, or something else is going on. You know that Warner Brothers cartoon where either Daffy Duck or Bugs Bunny (I can’t remember which) find a frog who can sing and dance better than Gene Kelly but once they put the frog up on a stage in front of a live audience, all the frog will emit is a ‘Ribbit’? Well, I think that’s me. Although I’ve had short stories published and plays produced, I think that perhaps because my work has never been out in the public in any large way, I could basically stay anonymous. After all, how many people read small literary journals, or go to off-off (okay, throw in another off) Broadway shows? I could legitimately say I was a writer, but not have to deal with the expectations that successful writers have from not only their publishers and loyal readers, but even more importantly, themselves. Writing for me had always been an escape, a secure place where I could play my inner demons off each other, but now that it’s become a product — something that’s success is based on how many copies are sold — it kind of feels like just another job, and I already one of those.
Anyway, whether or not I’m suffering from stage fright or Alzheimers, I plan to hedge my bets on Thursday when I’m scheduled to have a reading with a Voodoo Priestess. Although I usually don’t go in for such things, (she’s a friend of a friend, and has lost everything in Hurricane Katrina), I’m hoping she can channel that creative spirit that used to inhabit me, or drive away the evil one that is tying my storytelling tongue up in knots. But even if she doesn’t, I figure at least I’ll have some material for when/if the urge to tell a story ever strikes me again.
P.S. If you’d like to support a survivor of the hurricane, you can book a reading with Sallie Ann Glassman by logging onto her website www.feyvodou.com.