“What does writer’s block feel like?”
I think that just as much as every writer has their own process for writing, each and every one probably experiences writer’s block in different ways.
The easiest way to envisage writer’s block is a pair of clawed hands holding the writer back, rendering him or her unable to reach their pen, keyboard, or quill. It’s those hands, though, that take on different shapes.
“Making soup”
I feel like soup is more than just food, don’t you? Soup is nourishment for the soul.
Picture this: it’s a cold, damp day, and you’re feeling kind of blue because your boss yelled at you for something that wasn’t your fault. You stop at the grocery store because you know that there’s nothing but a tub of mayonnaise and a half-eaten packet of Tostitos in your kitchen. You wander around aimlessly, trying to figure out what you feel like eating. Suddenly, as you sullenly walk through the fruit and vegetable section, you spot a butternut squash sitting on its own in the basket. You’re instantly transported to a day in your childhood when you weren’t feeling too great as well, and you see your mother place a steaming bowl of butternut squash soup right in front of you. You take your first sip and swallow. It warms you to your very core. It’s a warmth that begins at your centre and spreads out across your limbs, all the way to the tips of your fingers and toes. Read More
“Write ten sayings for fortune cookies”
“A tree from a leaf’s perspective”
She gives me life. Did you know that? This tree that I belong to. I am here, floating in the wind, basking in the sunshine only because she gave birth to me and continues to bring me life. She endured the toils of winter for me. For all us leaves. I am safe because she—tall, robust, elegant being that she is—keeps me secure on one of her tendrils, branched out away from her body. She gives me life and I, in turn, give her life, too. I use the cells within me to give her sustenance and nourishment. It’s an exchange that will continue until the sharp tugs of Autumn’s wind carry me away, pale but brilliant in my yellow hue.
She gives me life. Did you know that? And she will continue bestowing it long after I am gone.
“A piece of clothing you keep just for the memory”
There’s a dress hanging in my closet. Its colours red and gold. The bodice, sleeveless, is of red silk with golden oriental patterns splayed across it. The waist is a simple golden ribbon, sewn on by hand after the fact with clumsy and imperfect stitches of mine, contrasting those done neatly and diligently by my mother. The skirt was a matching red to the bodice, bright and seductive but plain in its lack of pattern. This was my prom dress. A dress inspired by a piece of fabric that my mom had stored away for years. This was what we used for the bodice. It’s a dress I’ll keep forever, for it keeps within it a memory of creation with my mom and the memory of sharing a wonderful night with my friends.
“The way the sky looks today”
Spring seems to have finally landed in Vancouver. After months of rain and grey, today the city is graced with the bluest of skies. The sun is shining joyfully, inviting itself in through windows and caressing walls that had long forgotten its touch. Read More
“What can happen in a second”
In a second, her mind travelled through her version of time. She flew back to her first memory, the caress of her mother’s hand against her cheek. She experienced her first bike ride all over again; heard and felt every word of her first argument; she shivered at the feel of her first kiss. She flew into her future too, to glimpses of all it could be.
In a second, she saw her whole life, from beginning to end. And in a second—just a second—she was back.
