I know Bradbury’s answer: “Read a poem, a story, and an essay every day.” Without a deep well of “metaphors” (his word for ideas/images/stories), we dip the bucket in time and again and come up dry. That’s where I’m at right now with imaginative, fictive writing.

I’m writing plenty of nonfiction: blogging, notebook thoughts, book reviews, lesson plans and such. But my stories have become a wasteland of nothingness. No ideas. No images. No stories to tell.

I suppose I can blame my own perfectionism, the way it creeps into every crevice of my head and tells me, “No, that’s a terrible idea.” Or: “No, that’s no good. You sound like a hack.” But lately, in the last couple of weeks (since mid-May, perhaps), when I go into my head to find some words or ideas for a scene, I find nothing. Emptiness. Total blankness. Silence.

Am I not reading enough poetry? Not enough stories and novels? Not enough pleasure reading and daydreaming?

I definitely don’t do enough daydreaming. When I get a moment of quiet, I spend it reveling in the quiet and barely a thought peeps out. I’m out of practice with daydreaming, but how do I get back into practice? I know part of the problem is that I’m a worrier, and now that I’m a mom, I worry ALL THE TIME. I worry that my kids are sick, or that they’re not eating well, or that they watch too much T.V., or that something catastrophic will happen to them (unlikely stuff like a tornado hitting our house or a fire or a gas leak) (which is not to say that those things don’t sometimes happen, but the inordinate amount of time I spend worrying about them is not healthy or sane). I also worry about work, about appointments, about deadlines and bills and engagements and special events: all of the activities and responsibilities of life that weigh me down psychically. All the Things I Have to Do. Too many Things.

I have a hard time putting all of these deadlines and due dates and events out of my head and just letting go. Which is why I seldom daydream anymore. Driving to work or taking a shower are my only daydream moments, it seems. (Neither of which I do very much when school is on break for the summer. No driving to work, and fewer showers because there’s no one to watch the kids while I clean up.)

So I am stinky and lacking in daydreams.

What I could do is read more fiction and poetry. That, at least, is something I have control over. I’ve been on a nonfiction reading kick lately (and the books have been wonderful, no doubt), but maybe I need to set aside the nonfiction and get lost in a bunch of fantasy novels and Victorian poetry and even read some myths and legends again.

And maybe I need to start writing crappy dialogue and hackneyed plot devices and terrible prose and just live with it. Better to write shitty stuff than to not write at all (she said with some doubt but still with as cheery a tone as she could manage).

I go through these dark periods a lot, don’t I? Lots of “writer’s block” and lack of ideas and whinging about it on my blog. I feel bad spewing my negativity onto the Internet, but I also don’t feel bad. This is my blog. It’s my space to write my thoughts. I don’t have to put on a performance, to be “on brand,” or to sell anybody anything. If I want to whine and bitch, then I can whine and bitch. And if nobody reads it, then no big deal. I’m not trying to rack up hits or likes or anything of the sort. I’m just putting my ideas out into the world and perhaps someone will stumble upon them and see a kindred soul. Or not.

Anyway, I should probably write some bad fiction now. Let all my adjectives be shitty and all my characters cliche!