I drop in again to understand the writer’s block, the stuckness.
What is the real reason for not sending the manuscripts off to a publisher?
I’d rather not know if its not good enough. It’s in my tummy. The ‘not good enough’. A big rock.
When did it first attach itself?
I feel like it goes way back…way, way back…almost Neanderthal times. I’m a cave man. Chiselling rocks. Moving big boulders around and I’m really struggling to move the boulders. I use my whole body. I push so hard, the whole rock pushes into my body. It rips the skin and is swallowed up. I swallow it into my stomach and I now can’t move. I’ve got this huge rock inside me. I feel so sick, like I’m going to vomit. I can’t go anywhere because I can’t move. I’m desperate. I think I’m going to die here. My co workers are so embarrassed by me that they’ve all walked off, left me lying desolate on the floor. I am going to end up dying here. I’m so deperate.
Do you die?
Yes, I do die.
In the moment of pushing my whole jaw is tense, my hands are fists. My whole body, every muscle is engaged, cramping, I’m digging really deep to try and find the strength. It’s pure determination. And total and utter desperation.
Are there any other images?
Just that my co-workers have also got this fate coming to them. Some of them are also having a similar experience. I am not alone. Regretfully I only get this clarity, this realisation in the moment before I am about to die.
Where in your body are you holding desperation?
In my jaw. The colour is orange.
Clear it.
Done.
Where are you holding the inability to move?
In my stomach. It is also orange.
Clear it.
Done.
