Writer's Block

This is a little piece I wrote this fall for a play I co-wrote and performed at Chatham called "Project ID". The premise was each participant performed a stereotype of themselves and then performed a piece they'd personally written to express their inner thoughts as well as trying to breakdown the a for mentioned stereotype. I was the lonely fat girl stereotype but my piece was about being a writer, except I was going through a dry spell with my creativity, so I wrote my piece about being stuck creatively. I'd like to make a special note that Shamin Mason, who was one of my cast mates and co-wrote the performance, gave me the lines about being a dancer or a painter. Shamin is a fellow creative writer at Chatham and a dear friend to me. Her words of support really touched me and that's why I made sure they made it into my piece. Thank you Shamin.
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Writer's Block

I am a storyteller. I weave a tapestry with words, sewing together syllables and blending verbs and nouns in seamless strings. I am a storyteller.

I am a storyteller without a thread of idea. I sit before my imagery loom with no yarn to weave with. I sit and I stare and I wonder. I use to have millions of tales, ready to roll off my tongue at a moment’s notice. Where have all my stories flown?

There is a great burden on a storyteller that has no stories left to tell. If I was a dancer and words could not express my feelings, I would dance. If I was a painter, and words failed me, I would paint. But I am a writer, and when my words fail me, I am left with a blank sheet of paper.

An empty sheet of paper I hold in my hand, its unblemished surface mocking me. I stare into the white void of the paper’s surface, and it stares back into me. It laughs at me, poking and prodding at my pride. I am the storyteller with no story.

My life, the way I see myself, is much like my stories. I have a million pieces, a jigsaw of memories that I can’t seem to fit together. I have the stories of my childhood, of my murderous friend, of my painful journey, of my scars, of my tattoos, of my fears, and of my victories. I have the stories of my life, but they’ve all been told before.

I have a long list of tales ready to weave but I find myself mute. I am the storyteller that was told to tell the tale of herself and she has found she is a frayed string, unfit to weave.

I am the storyteller that holds the pen in my hand, ready to tell my tale, but the tale I want to tell is still unwritten.