I have been having a lot of trouble with writing as of late. If I am assigned something to write, there is no trouble. That kind of writing may not be fulfilling, but at the very least it is writing. It is the pulling stuff out of the air, out of my head that is giving me pause.
The reason for this, I believe, is that at some point, my method of creating and of thinking as changed from being a process that begins and continues in my head to one that needs a physical, tangible kick start. I've always considered myself to be a visual learner, but now I've seemed to have morphed into a kinesthetic learner. I attempted to take a movement class, in order to loosen the block and get ideas flowing by crawling and spinning and sliding my way across a physical space. Unfortunately, that class was canceled due to low enrollment after just one meeting. An outlet closed.
Using physicality to create is quite a different experience from sitting on the floor, creating in a notebook. I enjoy both, but the sitting on the floor method is easier to get started in theory. I have a floor. Let me go sit. There is no gathering of people, no, asking "hey, do you want to make something?" No wrangling of schedules (except my own). Yet on the floor, the ideas start and promptly stop, with no one but myself to force me to continue on (and I am so very lazy).
How do I trace my process back to the old, very effective and productive way it once was? I've attempted to repeat formerly useful habits--looking at a lot of art, reading a lot, thinking a lot about what dead smart people have said, jotting down ideas as they come. Yet that spark that was so vibrant years ago seems to be extinguished. Permanently.
I could moan and blame the world and the crappy fact that I have to work to pay for all the time I spent reading and looking at art and the like, but don't a lot of people work and still manage to find the time for the thing that they love?
I could also do something to break down this (multi-year) block, which is why I am starting this blog. It is an attempt to alleviate my frustration as an artist and to, I hope, get me writing again. It is an attempt to get me to remember why I am a dramaturg, why I want to make theater.
A stage that is just a stage.
A man enters. Crosses. Lifts his right leg.
And for the moment, that is that. Why is he lifting his leg? What will happen? Perhaps I shall sit on the floor and see.