For the past several days, I have been struggling to write. I should say, rather, that I have been labouring on revisions of several projects: short articles for a sequel to my Africans and Americans: Embracing Cultural Differences and a review of Isidore Okpewho's book, Blood on the Tides, for Western Folklore.
I have been trying to be productive, but have constantly hit a snag. On each attempt, after revising a mere paragraph or a little more, I have routinely felt tired. All writers experience writer's block, but that knowledge has been no consolation, especially because my predicament has been somewhat protracted.
In the midst of all this, I have found myself recalling Ernest Hemingway's description of the writing process:
There's no rule on how it is to write. Sometimes it comes easily and perfectly. Sometimes it is like drilling rock and then blasting it out with charges.
I know that I will eventually complete my current tasks to a satisfactory degree, but in the meantime, the work does feel like drilling rock.
I have been trying to be productive, but have constantly hit a snag. On each attempt, after revising a mere paragraph or a little more, I have routinely felt tired. All writers experience writer's block, but that knowledge has been no consolation, especially because my predicament has been somewhat protracted.
In the midst of all this, I have found myself recalling Ernest Hemingway's description of the writing process:
There's no rule on how it is to write. Sometimes it comes easily and perfectly. Sometimes it is like drilling rock and then blasting it out with charges.
I know that I will eventually complete my current tasks to a satisfactory degree, but in the meantime, the work does feel like drilling rock.
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