Writer S Block Has Never Been a Problem for Me

Writer’s block has never been a problem for me.

Now a cynic might suggest that’s because I’m not much of a writer. And I wouldn’t argue with that assertion.

“Writers” have something to say and are passionate about the way they say it. When they know what they want to express but struggle to do so in a way that satisfies them, their passion may lead to writer’s block.

I’ve always considered myself a “wordwright.” The difference is that I don’t have all that much to say and approach the craft with a practiced skill rather than passion. Perhaps that diminishes the type of pressure that leads to writer’s block.

But the day this column was due, I was experiencing what could be described as “writer’s muddle.” Other responsibilities had crammed too many things into my head. My thoughts wouldn’t settle long enough to grab one. Yet my deadline was approaching, quickly.

With a snap decision, I shut down the computer and left the office. Fifteen minutes later, I was on the saddle of my bicycle, heading away from the house.

It was far from a fair July afternoon with a sky of gray cumulus brooding. After the recent run of heat and humidity, the intermittent breezes were dry, cool and welcome.

Cawing crows were calling out a hawk, circling high above the adjacent hillside. My bike was pointed in the opposite direction, though, seeking a connection with my local urban rail-trail.

Riding through Sandyvale Memorial Gardens, I spotted flocking birds out on an expansive green. While too distant to identify, the flock reminded me that we’re already losing many of our breeding birds to their wintering grounds.

Being on an urban trail during the business day is a different experience than riding it in the evening or on weekends. All around me was the hustle-bustle of an economy in motion.

A front-end loader filled a large dump truck in an adjacent concrete company yard. Construction crews were busy on a bridge replacement project. Rhythmic, rapid hammering emerged from the depth of a distant mill building. Soon, however, the trail transitioned to a more natural setting along the Stonycreek River. The lowest boughs of lush, green sugar maple and hickory trees were caressing the swollen brown water.

In this sheltered river valley, the birdsong became a chorus, reassuring me that many species remain here in the heart of summer.

Little bright reddish-yellow jewelweed and white Queen Anne’s lace dotted the wayside. One hundred feet or so in front of me, a groundhog scampered across the trail, its tail surprisingly squirrel-like.

A group of three people stopped me to ask some questions. An older couple was here from the Cape Canaveral area of Florida to visit their daughter, who recently had moved to Johnstown to work for the Conemaugh Health System.

They all were interested in learning more about the James Mayer Riverswalk Trail, upon which we were standing, and also asked about the Path of the Flood, which runs north from Johnstown. It felt good to respond to their questions and represent the community in a positive way.

My ride was short but long enough. Back at the desk, with my mind now cleared and focused, the column came together quickly.

We all have times when stress overloads us mentally. The next time that happens to you, take a break. Go outdoors.

Fresh air feeds the soul. You’ll be surrounded by sights, sensations and sounds that gently will wash your brain and flush out the clutter.

Take a walk. Jog or exercise the dog. Tend your garden a bit. Or, if you’d prefer, pick a quiet place such as a stream bank and watch the world pass you by for a little while.

As for me, I like to ride my way out of the middle of the muddle.