A moment to vent about Writer’s Block


I REALLY need to get some new hobbies!

Tonight, I am focusing on writer’s block.  Of course, that’s the probably the two words any writer hates to face because it means that we are able to write something that’s the quality of a really bad rejected Twilight script, only with less substance and way more sparkle.  If you are, like me, a writer or, worse still, a reader, please, manage your expectations and gag reflex, because this particular blog entry is gonna get really ugly.

I can remember, years ago, when writing was an easy thing for me to do.  I mean, it came naturally.  I’d sit a computer, or at my journal, and just start flowing.  It just came out, like blasts of creativity.  The only difference between these blasts and the explosions which happened in other facets of my personal life were that these didn’t leave stains.  Instead, these were healthy, non-stick creative outbursts which could continue without the need for recovery or towels, if you get my drift.  One of the great things about creativity is that is truly is pleasurable in one very important way – there is no grossness to remove.  That’s how writing used to be.

Today, writing is often like watching my own personal proctology exam; uncensored, awkward, and highly uncomfortable.  The difference is where, when properly performed, the involved medical professional’s digit is utilized in such a fashion that I didn’t really feel much – except for awkward – writing now, at least for me, feels something akin to what Game of Thrones Joffrey must have felt at the Red Wedding.  Being shackled to horses and someone yelling “yah!” would actually feel a bit preferable.  I’m in the midst of a writer’s block which is remarkably unsettling.   Rather than simply be bored and annoyed, it feels like a part of me is missing.  This has, in 25 years of writing, never happened.  There’s always been something I could write about, even something mundane.  Hell, I actually wrote once about not writing, that’s the sort of hail mary pass I was able to toss.  Tonight, I am writing about not being able to write, which is akin to an intellectual quantum singularity opening within my head and sucking it, Star Trek style, into an alternate reality.  My hope is that this reality features a hot blonde sitting next to me and, no, not the coffee!  Yes, folks, I’m into blondes and brunettes, and redheads (okay, special soft spot for redheads, I’ll admit it!) but I am now seriously digressing.

At this moment in time, my brain feels like someone has stuck a really wacked-out version of Windows 10 in it, opened up fifteen different copies of Microsoft Edge, and then played the ultimate practical joke, simultaneously updating Chrome and OneDrive while whipping out a Ipad and whizzing along at light speed while they watch me flail in agony as my ‘brain browser” speed drops to somewhere between “Yugo” and “Garfield slinking out of his bed.”  Yes, folks, I have reached the point where an eastern European version of the AMC Gremlin from the late 1980s, which Weird Al Yankovic himself once sang about, is faster than my own ability to write.  It’s gotten that scary.

Scarier still, the Dos Equis guy is no longer the “Most Interesting Man in the World.”  Oh, the horror.


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