You’ve probably heard of the theory of multiverses, how every action and decision we take splinters off and creates another parallel universe, that somewhere another version of us is playing out an alternative reality of our lives — living out what could have been. And writing’s a bit like that. With each word, my writing today can go a multitude of different ways.
For example: Nathan walked… could easily become Nathan walked until they caught him… or Nathan walked straight into the woman of his dreams… or Nathan walked right out of that place… each and every word I take is a step into a new unknown universe; each phrase branches off and creates a different reality. That’s the beauty of writing, the ability to map out and share with others the boundless, magical worlds our mind creates.
And yet, I feel that somewhere, in another multiverse, another me is having far greater success at writing than I am right now. Lately my mojo has gone AWOL, my muse has upped and left (although strictly speaking my long-suffering wife is my muse and luckily she’s still suffering me), the well of inspiration has dried up.
I’m going through a perturbing time right now where words are difficult to come by, phrases and ideas have gone into hiding. It’s not just writer’s block, it’s something deeper, something more akin to a crisis of confidence. Those steps into the unknown are becoming more reluctant, those endless branches of reality seem to wither second by second before me.
I’ve said before that this journey of becoming a writer always felt like the only journey I wanted to take, I’ve also said that it would be a journey that would make me despise myself and want to give up, and this week has been one of those reluctant journeys. Today, this journey yields no joy, the scenery is bleak and uninspiring; today it invokes only that primordial flight or fight response — with an overwhelming inclination towards flying.
But I know I should fight on as I have done before, push on through the pain, the silence, and the doubt; keep crawling, word after agonising word, until I bleed and make it through this barren land. That once I’ve escaped and run across the lush fields and scaled the mountains of my mind again, then I can lie back and look upon the stars that map out the millions of possibilities that words can create and follow its endless branches of realities. Until then, please bear with me.
In response to daily prompt: Millions