Creative Funk

“To try to write love is to confront the muck of language; that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive (by the limitless expansion of the ego, by emotive submersion) and impoverished (by the codes on which love diminishes and levels it).” -Roland Barthes

As of lately I’ve been avoiding writing, or really anything creative. I blamed it on exhaustion and the weird disruptions that hungover nights ripple throughout your week. But, we can probably boil it down to some cross between laziness and creative paralysis. I have to vouch for this creative paralysis idea, but also simultaneously have to say that it’s just a fear of failure, which is obviously  just as present in any other field. I think there’s something worse about creative paralysis though. There’s something, once again, obvioouuusly, about baring your soul to the world in a manner which makes you most vulnerable, and knowing that there’s the possibility that it can and will be considered bad.

But, alas. Maybe I just needed a kick in the butt to remind me who I am. “Who I am.” Ya know? Maybe it was because I felt a bit like I’d given into old weaknesses of mine once again. I don’t know why it is, but when I’m upset with myself, nothing flows nearly as quickly as this little scribble did.

Ya know what they say about heartbreak, it’s the creative muse. So apparently I’m supposed to harness all of this pain and turn it into something worthwhile.

So shoutout people for breaking our hearts, I finally got the kick in the butt I needed. And I went off. I got my creative spark!!!

I painted today, worked on my Patagonia movie, put down this little tidbit.

Aint nothing better than some searing heartbreak to get you out of a creative funk… amirite? Laughs in sobbing tears.

PS. I wrote an earlier version of all of this, but my laptop SHUT DOWN ON ME. WHILE IT HAD BATTERY. STUPID APPLE. I MISS STEVE JOBS. And I had to start it all from scratch. Forgive me if I’m not the writer genius you do, or do not expect of me. 

I’ve been learning a bit about my writing style. I’ve still been experimenting. Working on finding my genre, my voice, the tone and perspective I prefer, how it is that I get into a story. It’s a difficult balance to compromise on, somehow figuring all of those out once and trying to finesse them all into one seamless writers identity.

One day I’ll have it down, you’ll see.

And here’s a story about one day. One crushing, ambiguous day. Which started off fictitious, but ended up resonating quite a bit with me and my current situation. You can decide just how much.

This is my first version of it, I may end up rearranging and changing it quite a bit. TBD.

            Breakfast was never a big affair, often the remnants of whatever fruits sat in the fridge, but if anything, breakfast was a happy time. It consisted of coffee and the background whispers of the rising morning. And every once in a while, she caught a sunset that made the headache of driving into work worth it. But even more so, she’d always had that one text to look forward to seeing as soon as she woke.

            Today she did the same. Pushed the power button on the coffeemaker and pulled out a clementine. She did not open the windows, nor listen to the chirps that would come about within the next few minutes. Her apartment filled with the sound of sappy love songs that reminded her exactly of what she’d had yesterday, and she let the tears come pouring out.

            Her face nuzzled into his nose, lips on his neck, hands on her thigh, hand on her back, lips on hers, on his, on him, on her. Breathes colliding into one another as they whispered to one another, wrapping in and out like writhing souls. His legs touching hers as he fell asleep, reaching out to each other, touching, always touching.

            Not touching.


            Her sobs shook her a little harder than she expected, expelling themselves from her body like a foreign substance. Purging the rest of the disease she had within.

            She pushed the tears off her face, smearing a line of snot in the process. She gathered her breathing, steadied it, slowing it to a normal pace. Bringing herself back to normality, allowing the scent of coffee to soak into her nose and leaving the clementine untouched. She let the coffee scald the back of her throat, her tongue, her mouth. Let it burn everything.

            She didn’t mind.

            It got him out of her mind for a bit.


I know I’m dramatic. But I deserve to be, huh?

xx. Sara

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