A reader messaged me recently to comment on a piece I’d done about struggling with writer’s block:

“It seems possible to me that poetry and writing are occupations that some of us take up as a matter of identity,” he wrote. “It means something to be a poet or to be a writer that an individual finds valuable in some way.

Taking up that identity does not necessarily mean that one has something to say, no matter how practiced his or her technique might be. Nor is it true that simply because one has been able to write something valuable at some point in their life that all the rest of their life is to be about writing. Any more than the 20-some years we may put into parenting means that 'parent' is the only thing we are in life, or even that 'parent' is a role we will play until we die.

Perhaps ‘writer’s block’ is simply a state where one has nothing to say. In which case, silence is the most useful thing.”

My first response was, “Ouch, he thinks I have nothing to say.” I admit it, my feathers were ruffled.

When I got home, I looked at the peacock feathers I have in a blue glass vase. I met the bird who once owned those feathers (he dropped them) at St. Mary’s College in Maryland a few years ago, when I was a speaker at their literary festival. His feathers were ruffled, too, because all the peahens on campus ignored him, despite his obvious good looks.

Since he couldn’t get their attention, he would stand for hours, looking at his reflection in the windows of the arts building. He was devoted to that image. Even in heavy rain he would gaze admiringly at his beloved, unmoved by the cold or the wet.

Occasionally he would notice us humans, and if we stopped to watch him, he’d put on his finest show. Those dazzling feathers would fan out behind him, forming a blue-green half-shell. He would stand, head high, while we oohed and aahed, and then he’d turn around and pose for the windows. Back and forth he would turn, so both audiences could see him.

One day I stood there for 30 minutes, wondering how long the performance would continue. There was something so sad and charming about this bird, which wanted – demanded – attention.

He reminds me of the inner peacock we artists have – the desire to be noticed and appreciated for the hard work we have done.

That bird can be an asset, when kept in check.

It displays its finery when we struggle to complete difficult poems. “There’s something valueable here, keep going,” it says. It pushes us to keep sending out work, despite possible rejection. It’s the tiny voice that whispers, “I have something worth saying and sharing.”

Some people feel that the joy of writing should be all the reward we need, but imagine if Seamus Heaney, Robert Frost, or Elizabeth Bishop had kept their poems in a drawer. Imagine if Shakespeare had said, “Ah, don’t waste your time with my plays.” The peacock has an essential role.

The problem is when “I have something to offer” is replaced by “look at me.” Too much window-gazing isn’t good for the writer or the audience.

I’m sure the man who messaged me understood that. He probably also knew that window-gazing often covers up a lot of insecurity. “Look at me, so you don’t notice that I have nothing to say.”

In that case, the writer has to dig deep. Resistance to hard work and personal growth may be the problem. Sometimes it’s simply a need to do more living.

And sometimes the peacock just needs to hear, “Aren’t you gorgeous. No one else has your style. Now go do something constructive.”