17 Apr 2012
Despite being surrounded on all sides—as if held hostage—by books, the last thing I’ve wanted to do for the past weeks (months, even, if I’m honest) is read. This is not a confession, just a fact: I can’t read. Or read, at least, with any pretense of endurance.
All writing is a form of confession, but it is usually wrapped in metaphor as to disguise the truth revealed about the author. True confessions are much more difficult to make, particularly when they take the form of, “I cannot do this”. All artists question their abilities, even masters of the craft, but those doubts cannot be allowed free reign lest they cripple even the most talented creators.
Nell’s confession is not an admission of defeat. It is the way by which she attacks the demon that is feeding her incantations of defeat. Writer’s block and reader’s block are the same villain, both simply the way by which we are overwhelmed with The Word. Nell’s piece is her way of saying that she will be overwhelmed no longer.