It's in the way your cat's whiskers twitch while she plots your murder when you're fast asleep.
It's in that mysterious stain on the ceiling that looks like Abraham Lincoln making out with a dolphin.
What am I talking about? How to come up with unlimited ideas and all of that fancy stuff...
The prose. Your words. They are everywhere...
Shrieking to be noticed, humping your leg like a desperate chihuahua.
The room you do your writing in, isn't just a room.
It's a crime scene of potential stories. See that spider web in the corner? That's not just accumulated dust and dead bug parts, that's a goddamn silk-spun memoir of eight-legged murder. The prose is in the way your chair squeaks like it's having an existential crisis every time you shift your ass. It's in the way your neighbour's bass-heavy music vibrates through the walls like a cardiac arrest in progress.
It's in that houseplant you've been slowly torturing to death because you treat it like it's either dying of thirst in the Sahara or drowning in the Pacific.
So here's a little prompt to get you going and get you writing: PLANT YOUR ASS AND PAY ATTENTION Shut that door. Lock it. If you don't have a door, imagine one, and then imagine locking that imaginary door because you're a writer and making shit up is your job.
Now open your eyes so wide your face hurts. Look around like you're casing the joint for a heist. (I had to throw that bit of language in there cause I've just finished playing a Mafia game and it's so damn good)
What do you see? What smells are assaulting your nostrils? What sounds are crawling into your ears? Don't just observe. WITNESS. Take that sensory information and vomit it onto the page like you're purging after a bad taco Tuesday. Where are you? No, where are you REALLY? Don't give me that "I'm in my room" weak sauce. Tell me about the way the afternoon light cuts through your blinds like a serial killer's smile. Tell me about the dust motes dancing in that light like tiny drunk angels at a rave. Tell me about the pile of laundry in the corner that's achieved sentience and is planning a coup. Spit it out. Make it raw. Make it real. Make it bleed. Because if you can't see the stories screaming from every corner of your own space, you're not looking hard enough.
And in this business, not looking hard enough is the kiss of death.
Writers block is a myth. So get to it. Write some words.
Stephen Walker