No, it's not writer's block

In March I finished a spec script I was writing for my portfolio, an episode of The Good Wife, a show I love. The idea for it had been marinating since November of last year. A long time if you ask me. But it worked. I’d found an article in the L.A. Times about death row appeals and clipped it and moved it from side to side of my desk for a while. I thought about it, filed it, pulled it back out and nothing. But I knew I needed to use it. And eventually I did – not the article but the idea it began in me, the idea for my episode. So I wrote it, rewrote it and poof! It was done. Before that I’d finished up rewrites of my two original pilots and before that I’d written an episode of Modern Family but that was back last summer. And now? I’ve got nothing.

I am trying not to freak out. I’m trying to be patient with myself and good to myself and not cry every few days. I’m trying to be strong and realistic and professional, as a good writer should be. But I’m not writing and it’s driving me crazy.

In working with this management company, I’ve been focused on crafting a career strategy plan rather than writing. It’s all fine and dandy. I’ve come up with pages of new ideas for shows, some bad, some worse than bad. I’ve written pages about my life story and my aspirations and learned to pitch myself, er, tell my story, in 120 seconds flat. I’ve also learned a 30-second version in case I ever run into Mr. Sorkin in an elevator ride (that pitch would also be contingent upon me being able to speak in said situation, which I highly doubt).

But again? I’m not writing. Yes, I’m journaling. Yes, I’m reading books and studying and planning. Yes, I’m being active, even proactive. But the thing is? I’M NOT WRITING. And it’s driving me (and possibly Angela) insane.

So I think I need to start. I’ve somehow convinced myself all my ideas are horrible, I should go try and get a job in insurance like was suggested, and move on with my life, leave this little fling with creativity behind. But then? I look up at my bulletin board, where I’ve tacked six pieces of paper from the past six months. Four are the WGA registrations for my spec scripts. And two are the Library of Congress copyrights for my original pilot stories. And I’m reminded again that I have done it, that I will continue to do it, and that I’d be a really really bad insurance saleswoman.