"Love For Literature Part 1: I Can't Write!!!"

Devin Joseph Metz

"Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite: "Fool!" said my muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write."" - Philip Sydney from "Astrophel and Stella" 

Wanna know what really grinds any writer's gears; be it an Author, Novelist, Poet, Column Writer, etc? 

Its that period of time when everything is stagnant. Its that unpredictable amount of time when all of those great ideas that one has either vanish or never seem to piece together initially. Its that portion of your life where the most undeserving victims incur our wrath; and these victims are usually comprised of waste baskets filled past the brim with balls of paper, ink pens that are tapped against the edge of hard surfaces(including our heads) and pencils that find themselves inhumanely mangled between our teeth in confused anger.

There is nothing more frustrating to us than Writer's Block; especially for we poets of the world. Sydney is telling our life story with the aforementioned quote. We as writers undergo extensive or brief periods of writer's block until we have that epiphany moment of sorts where we are left slapping our palm against our head after realizing where our muse was the whole time. It doesn't always happen that way, though.The cure for writer's block won't always come in the form of a stirring moment of remembrance. In my honest opinion, I believe that writer's block can be easily rectified most times if not every time by first understanding what caused it in the first place; especially since there isn't necessarily one usual suspect here universally when it comes to writer's block occurring.

Take into consideration what may have been going on around you while you were trying to write. Some writers find themselves distracted easily; thus making it difficult for them to focus on their writing unless they are in complete solitude. For some time(and still to this day every now and then; although I am not easily distracted), I have found myself in this type of situation. I lived in a house full of people and the visitors of said people. There was always something going on or a huge crowd making as much unnecessary noise as is humanly possible. Foolish as it may be perceived, I tried drowning out the noise with the television or my own music. Not the best idea, of course. Drowning out noise requires louder noise; which will still defeat the manifest of what this writer is looking to attain: Solitude.

That peaceful silence may aid the writer's focus substantially; in turn helping the writer key in on his/her own thoughts instead of thoughts relative to what someone else is doing around them. Once this is achieved, the writer can have a fair, one on one battle with writer's block instead of one where the writer's surroundings places him/her at a severe disadvantage. 

Getting rid of writer's block isn't necessarily always a matter of confrontation, though. There may be other ways to subvert something so frustrating. Some of us find that we have to be in a certain setting in order to successfully write. For some writers, solitude serves as their largest deterrent if that makes any sense. The desired setting may call for mild to frantic activity to surround that person. I've not met many people who will claim this as their preference, however. Some writers just want some music while they are writing; be it on a radio or in their headphones. I can definitely say that I enjoy listening to music in my ear buds while writing; but there is a lot more to it than just having earphones on for me. I have detailed preferences.

Music lends us the opportunity to counter writer's block from a number of different angles; like a misdirection strategy of sorts. While writer's block serves mainly to stall us in our writing; incurring aggravation and other means of distraction, music in many ways soothes the troubled mind and spirit(really Zen, huh?) in a manner that calms the writer; allowing him/her to find peace with oneself so that productivity can eventually commence once more. It should be noted, however that this calming sensation is not hinged upon what type of music the person is listening to. 

Seriously. You don't have to listen to only Classical, Neo-Soul, R&B, or any soothing music in order to find your relaxation to avoid writer's block. I know some people who listen to rock music to get their desired degree of relaxation. I know others that listen to Hip-Hop; which is highly understandable given the lyricism. Peak lyricism gets the creative juices flowing consciously and some songs may even serve as a means of supplemental inspiration(a Muse, if you will.). Hell, I even know of one or two people that can only write when listening to Young Jeezy.

Don't ask me how that works out...

I can say that as a Poet, there are varying instances that must take place for me to write; especially if I am looking to rid myself of writer's block. There are some times when I find that I have to take my time and really think before keying in on my writing; which leaves me wanting to be closed off, in a matter of speaking. I must have total silence aside from an air conditioner unit blowing, of course. More often, however, I have become more accustomed to writing while listening to music. I'm able to spark some creativity contingent upon what I'm listening to at the time that may break me out of my stint of writer's block. I also find that I'm able to soothe myself with the melody and rhythm of the music or even the lyrical content therein; which in turn helps me better deal with writer's block and even offers me the elusive muse that I have been looking for given any certain amount of time. Music is one very potent accompaniment for literature as it stands; but there are times where it may serve best as a therapeutic means rather than just as a means of inspiration. 

One thing to understand about writer's block is that you should never give into it. It should also be understood that choosing not to write at the time until you can figure things out is in no way to be perceived as giving into writer's block. I think this would illustrate what I mean:

This poor fellow here is engaging in an extremely counterproductive response to his writer's block. Not only does he miss the opportunity to go around his issue so that he can get back to his productivity; but he also chooses to give in to both writer's block and the frustration that it incites. 

Banging your head against a wall, being short tempered and ridiculously scathing, or just being an overall hard person for anyone to find a plausible reason to be around won't make your situation better; whether you are dealing with writer's block or anything else in life. Giving in to writer's block involves feeding in to that frustration and aggravation; which only helps further the manifest of writer's block: distracting you from your manifest of writing. 

Ever been around that family member that complains more about the chores that need to be done instead of actually doing them? How about that coworker that complains about their job so much that it causes a lapse in productivity across the board?

Gotten used to the rhetorical questions in my entries yet?

My point here is that nothing productive comes from succumbing to the anger that we can and most times will find ourselves privy to when it comes to writer's block. The first step to solving a problem involves acknowledging that it is a problem; but there is a large difference between acknowledging something and dwelling on it. Time is wasted and nothing is solved from dwelling on an issue. The issue will be as ever present as it was before we first noticed it and it will continue to be there if no further action is taken. Avoid the distractions, remain calm and focus on a productive solution to your problem. After all...

"We wander for distraction,  but we travel for fulfillment." - Hilaire Belloc

Couldn't have stated it better. We often bring on our own distractions in our wandering. Not saying that this is always a bad thing, of course; but there are times where one's desired focus is compromised.


There are some that believe that the best way to rid oneself of writer's block is to just randomly write whatever comes to mind; even if it doesn't make sense or has absolutely no continuity to it. The general idea here is that one will eventually get to the point where he/she is either struck with inspiration or they will develop ideas based on what they wrote down that may forge some semblance of inspiration later on.

I can't say outright that I don't believe that this method is effective; but I do think that it harbors the potential to lead to what I consider to be a very distasteful habit later on. In my opinion, forcing your way through anything robs it of authenticity; especially when literature is involved. Forced work lacks the time, patience, care, love and dedication that is usually ever present in a complete piece of work; and it definitely shows itself as such when presented or observed. 

Think about those sandwiches from your favorite fast food establishments that always look awesome on television commercials but never look even 1/4 as great when you purchase it.

Same concept, pretty much; especially for those writers that have garnered a measure of tenure among their contemporaries. Well known writers have a reputation to laud; so it would be surprising and disappointing for them to forcefully release material just to fit within the confines of a deadline or because they are frustrated over not writing as frequently as they would like to be writing. 

If anybody knows anything about that, I surely do. It used to vex me to no end when I would go a certain amount of time without writing. what was only maybe a week or two felt like months to me(my wife reminds me of this constantly.) and I would find myself fighting the urge to just jot something down and put it out there just to say that I've written something. If you learn nothing else about me, you'll learn that I love my literature. I especially love my Poetry. I love it so much that I wouldn't dare disrespect it in that manner; and if you love what it is that you do, then you would make sure that you never disrespect it in that said manner either.

I've spoken with friends and contemporaries of mine regarding their perceived solutions to writer's block and they've even stated that their use of certain vices such as smoking or libation place them in a certain effect or "zone" for their creative thought processes. Now I'm not one to doubt their methods completely. I'm not and never will be a smoker; but I have written some rather awesome stanzas while enjoying a glass of whiskey every now and then.

As far as the effectiveness of these methods is concerned, I think that since writer's block already does enough to impair one's creative thought process, it may not prove beneficial to compromise it further.

This is just my opinion, of course. Feel free to engage in whichever method or series of steps you deem effective.

Writer's Block isn't a disease, condition, disorder or anything like that. It is merely a temporary state of mind; one that may last days, weeks, months or longer. Regardless of how long it endures, keep in mind that you still have control over your drive, ambition, passion, intellect, and overall timing of your creativity. That creativity is a God given talent that belongs solely to you; and nothing can take that from you without your consent. So tap those pens against the table if you need to(Be careful, though. Some of them explode after doing that for awhile.). Palm your forehead. Close your eyes. Listen to some music. Enjoy a drink or a snack. Hey, even take a walk if necessary. Just do your environment one huge favor, though:

Go easy on the pencil chewing, huh? We can certainly agree that they've suffered enough.

"Cooling Water From Grandma's Well"

Devin Joseph Metz

"Grandmas hold our tiny hands for just a little while, but our hearts forever." - Author Unknown

Wise words indeed. Those close to me - be it a family member or close friend - know how large of a portion of my heart is reserved for my Grandmother. She is in many ways responsible for a lot of the mannerisms and traits that I exude to this day. A wealth of knowledge, wisdom, understanding, care, honesty and love was always in abundant display whenever my Grandmother was around. Many of us are only able to visit our grandparents during holidays and special family gatherings. Some of us make that random visit and end up staying well into the next day. I even know of a few of my friends that don't really have the best relationship with their grandparents; leaving them feeling awkward whenever they visit. I've even spoken to a few of my friends that claim to only visit their grandparents when they feel that it is absolutely necessary to do so. To this day, I remind them how important that person is to their life and how important they may be to their grandparent's life. It is a bond that I won't soon let go of and surely have never and will never regret for as long as I live.

The connection between a grandparent and a child is a very special one indeed. It is different from any other bond in the fact that although we as people carry the potential to learn from each other every day, the gems of insight and wisdom swapped between a grandparent and child take place with a higher degree of frequency than most other bonds forged in my opinion. To be honest, I believe that the young mind and that of an elderly person are the two minds that would be more receptive to reason and possibility than the thought processes of anyone in between these two. I know that most people deemed older in age have the "Set In Their Ways" stigma attached to them; and that statement is proven true to some extent. What most people often never realize, however is that most of that "Out-Of-The-Box" thinking that we do is a result of conversing that has taken place with our grandparents. That along with the lessons we are taught and the answers that are divulged when we have tried just about everything else that we could think of is usually a direct result of the wisdom imparted to us by our grandparents.

Lend some thought to this process and determine whether or not it makes sense to you:

The grandparent answers as many inquiries as he/she can that are provided to them by the child; broadening that child's mind and teaching the child invaluable skills along the lines of consideration for others, deduction, examination, experimentation and many other skills and traits that we often take for granted as adults; especially while using these gifts on a daily basis.

The child lends help to the memory of the grandparent; who in turn recounts fond portions of his/her childhood and how similar or differential things were in comparison. This recollection leads to some of the most wholesome, entertaining and sometimes even humorous stories that we as children have been told by our grandparents; and there is usually a nugget or three of wisdom along with a few morals in each story.

Makes more sense now, I presume. Both share a large amount of receptiveness; therefore allowing each other to teach the other something; whether that lesson be received in lieu of a question asked or a story told in fond memory.

This highly resembles the relationship that my Grandmother and I have shared. We actually had so close of a relationship that if it had not been for the glaring difference in our age, one would presume that she was my Mother in some regard. 

My Grandmother owned a "shotgun double" fashioned house in Uptown New Orleans, Louisiana. Around the time of my birth, my Mother was living on one side of the house and my Grandmother stayed on the other side. My Mother and Grandmother didn't have the best relationship; which was something that often befuddled me in my youth. I couldn't conceive how two people that seemed so much alike could possibly oppose each other as vehemently as my Mother and Grandmother did. There were a number of arguments and they hardly ever pulled any punches when it came to the other person's feelings. It was rather heart breaking to watch as a young boy; mainly because I often felt like I was stuck in the middle of it even when they both would assure me that I wasn't. I never felt responsible for their disliking of each other; but it was hard to ignore that I felt as if I would have to make a choice one day between the two. 

That choice along with a number of other things that have happened in my youth as early as ten years of age are why one would often hear me claim to have been robbed of a considerable portion of my childhood. Although I have many times stated this in a joking manner, I have always seriously believed this to have happened. I believe that this may have served as a blessing and a curse for me. 

Go figure...

My Mother moved out of my Grandmother's house when I was a little older than ten; leaving my five year old brother and I to decide whether or not we wanted to go with her or stay with our Grandmother. Many people at this time perceived this decision by my Mother as a cruel and unloving act; believing that we shouldn't have been placed in the position to make a decision one way or another. My Grandmother shared this concern. 

As I have grown, however I have gained a better understanding of why my Mother did this. She didn't want to leave; but she couldn't ignore the considerable toll that the fights between her and my Grandmother took on my Brother and I. She also knew how close we were to our Grandmother and did not want to break that bond, either. Suffice it to say, my Mother's decision to leave was in many ways considered more high risk than high reward. There was always the potential to have lost us completely to our Grandmother. This is not in the sense of possession but rather in the sense of allegiance and trust. 

The close relationship that my Mother and I have today is just as strong as the one I shared with my Grandmother as a child, though; and that is definitely something to thank God for.

I spent much of my youth well into my teen years caring for my Grandmother and little brother. A lot of the upkeep and cooking skills that I put to use nowadays comes from what I was taught in my youth by my Grandmother. Keep in mind that this was during a time when I was still riding the bus to and from school, doing homework and projects and still managing to get chores done around the house.
 
I had quite the exciting childhood.

I never griped, however. I felt that I really had no reason to; especially since my Grandmother's health was declining steadily. She suffered with Diabetes; so I quickly became familiar with her insulin regimen; issuing it to her twice daily(this is the best explanation for me having no fear of needles) and making sure that there was chocolate and juice on hand for whenever she experienced one of her episodes. This was a rather arduous time in my life to say the very least. There were nights when I wasn't necessarily sure if she was okay or not; so I would sit by her side and even leave my room to sleep next to her for fear of her getting sick and not being able to call for me.

 Come to think of it, that would explain my insomnia; but I digress.

My teenage years saw me undergo a considerable spike in my maturity as a young man; and by the time I was seventeen, I found myself having to make yet another rough decision. Arguments and various disagreements surfaced between my Grandmother and I; many of them too emotional to willfully recall. Neither of us wanted to acknowledge or even accept it; but I was outgrowing both my surroundings and her style of parenting. The one thing that really remained intact was her guidance; but for all the times that we would spend together learning from each other, there were just as many arguments if not more. 

It became fully apparent that it was time for me to leave; so shortly after graduating high school, I moved out of her house and went to live with my Mother. My Brother tagged along as well, of course. It was very hard for me to do; but I felt at the time that it was necessary. She would not be home alone, of course: my Uncles were there to look after her; many of them living there while my Brother and I were still there.

 There was a brief back and forth between my Grandmother and Mother about my decision to leave; but all was laid to rest soon thereafter. I began to notice how much of an influence she was to me as I seamlessly applied certain practices and habits that were cultivated while living with my Grandmother. My Mother told me often that if her Mother gave me nothing else, she definitely gave me structure. That was always evident and apparent to her. 

My Grandmother was a very, very proud woman. It was her very essence. Her zeal, if you will. She was in many ways one of the cornerstones of my Mother's side of the family. She always knew what to say, when to say it, how to say it and how it would affect the person she would tell it to. She never was one for pulling punches when it came to telling the truth; and she didn't believe in withholding the truth for the sake of one's emotional protection. There were a number of quotes and sayings that even to this day stand in front of me clear as the new day; but this one definitely strikes with great poignancy:

"I'm not gonna hide the truth from anyone. Hell, people have been hiding from the truth for years. The truth can walk around and never feel threatened. That's the problem."

She's a strong one for sure.


During Hurricane Katrina, we went back to her house to get her out of it as the roof was completely torn off of the house and the foundation was sure to crumble eventually. She was initially very stubborn; refusing to leave the house that her and my Grandfather worked so hard to acquire; but we were eventually able to coerce her into leaving; assuring her that it was for her own safety. It was the best decision for sure as we found out later on after the entire city flooded that her area of the neighborhood was completely submerged regardless of how high the houses were. We were able to regulate her medicine and supplies until we were able to exit the city days later; meeting in Baton Rouge with relatives that took us to LaPlace, Louisiana for the remainder of the year until the city was safe for return. While there, her health took a critical turn for the worse; especially after learning that one of my Uncles had drowned not far from her residence. Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years passed by while my Grandmother spent the rest of the year in a medical facility. 

Once January arrived, we found ourselves ready to pack and return home. Not long after returning, we placed her in hospice back home in New Orleans where she was under treatment constantly; but there was no substantial or even minuscule improvement in her health at all.

My Grandmother was born on March 13th. She didn't make it to her birthday the following year after the storm; passing away early February 2006 while still in hospice. I believe I slept and cried that entire day. That was the only day that I really felt any pain from that occurrence, though. The following weekend was her funeral. My Mother and I prepared the programs, arranged the service and made sure that everyone who could possibly make it to the service was there. 

I wanted to deliver her eulogy; electing to do so in the form of a poem. I couldn't shed a tear. I felt that familiar comfort that only she were able to impart to me as I read each stanza. The light from the mosaics shined bright and brilliant as I continued to read. Amid a church filled with misty eyes and people shouting, I found solace in knowing that this amazing woman that I have looked up to, marveled after and cared for my entire life up to that very point could finally rest.

 The program in its entirety was placed on a plaque that currently shares the same room as my Grandmother: Per her request, we had her cremated and she now sits in the living room of my Mother's house.

Although it isn't the same piece that I read at her funeral, here is the link to my Poetry blog for a piece in wrote December 2nd, 2010 in memory of her entitled "The Kitchen Table":


 http://thirstforinspiration.blogspot.com/2010/12/kitchen-table.html

I never got to meet my Grandfather, unfortunately. He disappeared a few years before I was born. From what I gathered from my Grandmother, Mother and other members of my family that knew him well, he was always rather demure and thoughtful; remaining calm through most anything until he observed someone distraught or vexed by something. He is often described as "one who wore a cape that no one ever saw;" implying that he wanted to solve everyone's issues. I can certainly share that trait. It wasn't until I finally accepted that I can't save everyone that I actually found some solace in just doing the very best that I can no matter the outcome.

One or two of my Uncles recall him being a big flirt; which I find very humorous as one of the two who happened to share this with me is quite the womanizer himself. As far as I'm concerned, I'll take my lumps for being a flirt of sorts; but I am in no regard a womanizer.

Don't look at me like that...

My Grandfather served in the Vietnam War; returning home in 1975. From those closest to him, he was evidently shell-shocked from what he experienced in combat. This took a seemingly irreversible toll on his psyche; which coupled with Alzheimer's disease only complicated matters further. He underwent stints of violent behavior then substantial memory loss; all while suffering seizures and nightmares in spells. Ever devoted, my Grandmother did what she could to take care of him in his dilapidated state; hoping that his faculties would improve at some point. 

In a recurrent conversing that I've had with my Grandmother, she stated that she knew that he may never return to the man that she knew before the war; but she always held out hope. When I inquired about his death, she stated that he left home one day and never returned. She asked around the neighborhood about him and even got the police involved in a search for him; but there were no leads regarding his whereabouts. I recall her saying that the police did find a body that they took to the morgue that fit the description that she gave them. She stated, however that when she went to view the body, she had not recognized the man as her husband. To this day, only my Grandmother really knows the truth about what happened to my Grandfather. I believe she may actually know and just refuses to recount said events; which I completely understand. My Grandmother took this bit of the unsolved to her grave.

Aside from the tragic, I've been told wonderful stories by my relatives regarding my Grandfather. Many of them I've compiled into a piece that I wrote about him on September 21st, 2011 entitled "The Man I Never Met." The link is below:


 http://thirstforinspiration.blogspot.com/2011/09/man-i-never-met.html


 Grandparents are those irreplaceable, undeniable, truly valued people in our lives that affect us in so many different ways. Grandparents are our link to the past; revealing to us reasons for why we are inclined to lead our lives in manners of our choosing. Very little of what we are as individuals is purely coincidental or a direct result of circumstance. There is an explanation for a considerable amount of what we delve into in our daily lives; and more often than not, the answers to why we are, what we are, what we do , why we do it and so many other inquiries rest within relatives of earlier descent; especially our grandparents. They love like no one ever could, cook better than anyone you'll ever eat from, understand the complexities of our lives thoroughly and seem to be masterful at helping us reach that very understanding for ourselves. No great feat, rare treasure or large amassing of any kind could ever hold a light to what my Grandmother means to me. She is my constant in a life filled with variables. She was that drink of cool water when life appeared determined to run me ragged.

I Love You, Grandmother. I can still see that smile that would fill an entire room with warmth and comfort.Rest well. <3

"Grandma's Hands" by Bill Withers

Grandma's hands clapped in church on Sunday morning.
Grandma's hands played the tambourine so well.
Grandma's hands used to issue out a warning,
She'd say, “Billy don't you run so fast,
Might fall on a piece of glass,
Might be snakes there in that grass,”
Grandma's hands.

Grandma's hands sooth the local unwed mother
Grandma's hands used to ache sometimes and swell
Grandma's hands used to lift her face and tell her,
She'd say, “Baby Grandma understands,
That you really loved that man,
Put yourself in Jesus' hands.”
Grandma's Hands.

Grandma's hands used to hand me piece of candy.
Grandma's hands picked me up each time I fell.
Grandma's hands, boy the really came in handy
She'd say, “ Mattie don't you whip that boy.
What you want to spank him for?
He didn't drop no apple core,”
But I don't have Grandma anymore,
If I get to heaven I'll look for
Grandma's hands.