Sisterhood and Writers Block

I recently enjoyed reading a biography of Flannery O'Connor by Brad Gooch. I am not a regular reader of biographies but once in a while I will find one that really holds my attention. I don't know if it's the good writing, extensive research, a passionate connection between author and subject or all of the above.

But Brad Gooch managed to make me feel a part of O'Connors life. I enjoyed the view from the sidelines, a silent cat sitting under the table and happily following Flannery throughout her life. When the book was over and O'Connor was dead I felt I'd lost a sister. I became eager to read all of her works which I am now in the process of doing. I have read nearly all of her short stories and one of her novels (she only wrote two).

There's nothing I love more than happening on new authors and setting about devouring everything they wrote. Flannery O'Connor wrote somewhere around thirty short stories and as I mentioned two novels. I am about two thirds of the way through her work. I also hope to read her letters. Then like a sated cat, I can sit back, purr and digest.

I have been blocked for over two years. My sister's recent advice when I complained of not having anything to write about was "Just fucking write - every day". Writers like Flannery O'Connor just wrote every day. For O'Connor it was after breakfast for two hours, she admits that's usually all the energy she had. .

My sister (the foul mouthed one) offered a beautiful metaphor for writers block. She equated it with an outside faucet. (She lives up north where it snows and freezes.) She said you just have to turn it on and let it sputter out all of the rust and nastiness before you get to the cool, clear fresh spring water.

By the way Celia is anything but foul mouthed. She is very well educated, her area of expertise being British literature. She is a gifted speaker and a beautiful writer. But, she is Irish and we Irish can't help ourselves. When we need to make a point our language can become colourful.

The daily commitment of two hours a day worked very well for Flannery O'Connor. She wrote some of the best southern prose of her day or any day. Her characters are so vivid that one can't decide if they like, hate or love them. She really captures the poverty and ignorance of the rural South.

She was a devout catholic. Yet her stories are full of protestant style Jesus fanatics. The hypocrisy of religion is well sketched and her tales are often dark even black and yet sometimes I can't help laughing. Her catholicism must have made her an outsider in much of the protestant South.

I too was a devout catholic for most of my life. I am currently devoutly unchurched.

Like O'Connor I suffer constant pain. I have periods where I feel well and then I have flare-ups. I doubt I can suffer with anywhere near the dignity of Flannery O'Connor. So I shall slog through the bad stretches (I'm having one now) and enjoy the good times when I am riding and being physically active.

So as I navigate the stagnant waters of writer's block, I have the audacity to glean inspiration from this great writer and to feel some sisterhood in our autoimmune purgatory.

And I'll wait for the muddy waters to become clear.