Writer's Block 3

by Portia Zuba

We are revising our final paper I look at the girls I have been spending the last few days with, and wonder if we will go back to awkwardly nodding in each other’s direction after the project is done, or if it is the beginning of new friendships. I am itching to write all my thoughts down, but I don’t trust my pen anymore.

The days when I used to write “Writer’s Block” are not only an irony, but they are a mockery to my constant failure of documenting things I thought were worth sharing. How could my pen fail me when I realized that my body was broadening, and that the world is becoming increasingly unforgiving of certain body types? How could my pen fail me when I was far away from home, and chocking on homesickness? How could my pen fail me in my moments of triumph, when I learned that I did not need to be surrounded by people all the time? How could my pen fail me in moments of my transition to what I believe is adulthood: constantly worrying about the future? How could my pen fail me when I was struggling to reconcile my christianity with modernity?

Thinking about how my pen has been a bitch is depressing, but it is also teaching me a lesson. Maybe I don’t need to always write about issues that I feel are important such as: fat shaming, and friendships, and the importance of alone time. Maybe writing about the bitchiness of pens is what I need to re-inspire myself. And so I write Writer’s Block is real, but in this moment I am victorious.