Today I have reached the wall.
An obstruction of infinite height and length, with neither crack nor chipped edge to show weakness. In fact the wall is empty of all expression and detail. A terrifying power that leaves me expressionless and blank.
Many writers talk about the wall. Some even see it even less as an object and simply as an action; a block. However it is manifested for all authors, for many it appears on several occasions. Each of us must come to a choice then, and toward what path we will choose.
For myself, I have visited the wall countless time before. Sometimes I stand in front it, shouting up in frustration that I can no longer write even a single coherent thought. AMore often then not I turn away from the ink and pen at the mere sight of the wall on the horizon.
It embodies the fear I have as a writer. To stand in the wake of uncertainty and criticism and find strength to push forward. Till now it has been easier to avoid the wall, find a lit path that leads me to write things familiar and safe.
I can see that path now, making its way into a warm valley where the colors of summer still show. In front of me stands the wall. There at eye level I notice a shadow upon the expressionless slate. Peering closer I realize it is a foothold. I press my toes into the narrow crack and search for my next hold.
There is none.
That is the reality of the wall. It does not give so simple to the corrosion of time. But in the coming days I will dig into the wall with determination and habit like hook and rope, and find a way over the summit.