When The Words Won’t Come by Tinthia Clemant
Let’s welcome back monthly columnist Tinthia Clemant’s as she shares with us: “When The Words Won’t Come.” Enjoy!
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When the words won’t come…
…it sucks.
I’ve made my living utilizing words.
From back when I was in college and paid for my tuition with a sales position at Filene’s in Boston, to choosing a career as a college professor, I understood words would always be a part of my existence. They helped define who I was as a person. I trusted them, and they were always there when I needed them.
Until now.
Six years ago, when I decided to become a “real” writer, and by “real” I mean someone who published her works instead of letting them collect dust inside a long forgotten flash drive, I knew I’d have to trust that the words wouldn’t abandon me, but hey, these were my words and we’d been through so much together.
I believed the words would stand ready to dance in a way they’d never danced before. All I had to do was give the command.
For a while the words behaved. They tapped, waltzed, twirled, and twisted through the pages of my first four novels.
When the Words Won’t Come
But now they’ve had enough. They’re tired of all the new dance moves I demand of them. They complain they weren’t meant to learn how to salsa, or perform Irish jigs.
They want a vacation.
Which leaves me where I am today. Alone. Wordless.
The words are gone.
Oh, I’ve tried all the self-help suggestions: take a walk, paint, read, visit an old friend, write in a journal, try word sprints, meditate, eat ice cream, drink gin and tonic until it forms the bulk of my blood. You get my drift. I’ve done them all.
And still the words won’t come.
They’ve abandoned me.
Now what?
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Editor’s note: I have the deepest compassion for what you’re going through. Many of us have been where you are.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Author of The Summer of Annah series, Tinthia Clemant lives in a secluded spot on the Concord River in Massachusetts. Her companions include a black Labrador/Coonhound named Harlee; Shadow, an elderly black cat who still rocks at catching mice that have wandered into the house; a few hundred wild Mallards; assorted turtles, songbirds, snakes; and hawks, two Great Blue herons, and an American bald eagle.
Besides writing, she enjoys baking, gardening, reading (of course), painting and photography, laughing, and movies (the more explosions the better). Tinthia is an ice cream aficionado and insists that Ben and Jerry are the most perfect men ever created. She inherited my father’s temper and her mother’s view on life: It’s meant to be lived, embraced, savored, inhaled, and not given back until every last drop of wonder is claimed. If you visit Tinthia, make sure you bring a bottle of bourbon and, of course, ice cream. Her favorite flavor is Chunky Monkey.
