The Drought and The Glut

I don't know if this happens to my fellow writers, but as a playwright I exist almost exclusively in a binary state. The zero I call The Drought. It's not hard to imagine what this is. Some call it writer's block, which for me is a bit of a misnomer. A block implies there is something on the other side of it, something pushing, struggling to break out if only it could get passed this THING sitting in its path. On rare occasions, I've had this feeling. And I believe I have tools to deal with this. Most of the time I write around the block, other scenes or other ideas. Often when I return to the trouble, I find the block was never really there and I just didn't understand what I was really working on. But The Drought is different. When I'm going through The Drought, there is simply nothing there. I have nothing to say and I have no way to say it.

Nothing.

This state can and will and has gone on forever. "You will never write again" is often the line I hear echoing in my barren head. It unnerves me and drives me to think that everything I have created is small and terrible. The Drought is depression and anxiety. It creeps into my personal life and drains every scrap of energy I have. I lay awake at night and worry. And I don't know how to fight it because I'm so immersed in the nothingness of it. Trying new projects seems futile and burdensome. Old projects just reveal what a horrible writer I am.And The Drought just persists, waiting for me to die as a failed writer.

And then the The Glut comes. I don't know why or how, but after my time in the wilderness, I find The Glut.

The Glut isn't an entirely joyous state. It's not focus. It's not the cup being replenished. Just like dried land hit by a sudden rain, it's an overflow of ideas. I have learned to try and capture as many of them as I can, to hope that I can get enough of any one of them down to finish it before The Drought returns. I think this is why I call it The Glut. It's not just the flow of ideas, but me frantically shoveling them into a form I can hold onto, even if I'm already over-flowing with thoughts. My writing returns to the teenage compulsion that could drive my mother insane. I scribble lines and ideas on any scrap of paper I find. It's often difficult to sleep (insomnia seems to be a core component of all of my writing) and when I do sleep, I curse myself awake for not getting that last brilliant line down before I drifted off. Unlike The Drought, I always know The Glut will end. I have this sensation that tomorrow it will be over and I'll be left with the wreckage.

Sometimes I can make useful time amongst the wreckage. Sometimes I can repair and complete the pieces thrown together in The Glut. But too often, I find the thing that kills The Glut is The Drought and forever has begun anew.

Such is my writing.

Over time, I have learned to feel each one less, to be less connected to the emotion of each state. But if I'm honest, they're still there. They still exist. I don't know why I'm saying this. But it's part of the process. It's how I function. And while the process of thought is a strange thing to analyze, I feel like admitting it somehow helps.

 That's all for now.


-BGD