Once I thought writer's block was a variety of Lego or a shady patch on the road. It's neither, I've decided. There are quiet zones in the most passionate writer where your creative outflow slows to a standstill, your main character won't speak to you and the music freezes to silence. It's not like sadness or doubt, so much as quietness, and that can be a good thing too.
Music needs space to allow the mind to wait and soak, even small notes beg attention and drag us away from contemplation. I thought my MC was sulking and had lost me, that writing was a task I wouldn't choose. But my MC waited as days passed and spoke in time. It was all about allowing colour to bend and break, until the plain white resurfaced as a rainbow.
I need to love the silence as much as the days that pound without space. I want to remember that life is made of seasons, mumbling days of droning will pour out their scrambled notes and force us to embrace the stillness with the same kindness we gave to the moments of beauty. And even to believe that the stillness is as beautiful, because it chose to make us wait. When we are no longer slaves to completeness, when the noise is a friend and the silence a backdrop for paused spaces, we are free to be paced by eternity.
