(Reposted from a post years ago. Not because of writer’s block. Just a certain general lack of élan. Which is sort of worse.) 🙂
Someone once said there was no such thing as writer’s block. You’re just out of ideas. Um….well, I’d call that a block, wouldn’t you? If you’re out of ideas, you’re blocked from writing. From words. From ideas. From sentences. From endings. Beginnings.
If you happened to follow Sandman while it was on, one of our favorite episodes was where a writer acquires a muse from a fellow has-been writer who’d been keeping her prisoner. The muse becomes the prisoner of the new writer…until her ex-husband, Sandman finds out, and, well…that’s the end of that. But first, Sandman punishes the writer by cursing him with a promise: “If it’s ideas you want…it’s ideas you’ll have. In abundance.”
Not good abundance. Bad abundance. But sometimes I think, in those circumstances, inciting a demigod’s wrath might just be worth it.
Below is an ode to writer’s block. And also how, sometimes out of left field, inspiration, motivation, ideas, can come from the last place you’d expect.
Weirdly, the form was inspired by the way the 2 Broke Girls sit-com used to phrase every single one of their titles, with “And the” before the rest. IE: “And the Wrecking Ball,” “And the Maybe Baby.”
I thought it was refreshing to have strange titles like that, as if commenting on its own ongoing narrative. I see writer’s block that way: as an ongoing internal narrative, an endless circling around and around, mindlessly chasing one’s own tail, until the internal chatter halts or the tail is finally caught.
And the writer’s block.
And the writer’s block.
And the writer’s block.
And the broken sleep.
And the empty page.
And the leering page.
And the halting start.
And the partial sentence.
And the wrong direction.
And the procrastination.
And the scanning email.
And the empty email.
And the new start.
And the new sentence.
And the faithful angst.
And the delete button.
And the delete button.
And the empty page.
And the unctuous page.
And the dragging time.
And the stingy syllables.
And the wretched syntax.
And the stutter and stop.
And the procrastination.
And the procrastination.
And the writer’s groups.
And the logging in.
And the anonymous banter.
And the hour lost.
And the logging out.
And the looming television.
And the search for something.
And the clutching distraction.
And the hope for insight.
And the empty nothing.
And the death of hope.
And the discarded television.
And the dragging time.
And the idle hours.
And the empty page.
And the empty page.
And the empty page.
And the wandering eye.
And the favorite book.
And the quiet perusing.
And the beautiful sentence.
And the wall between you
And the beautiful sentence.
And the skulking hours.
And the start and stutter.
And the start and stutter.
And the waning mettle.
And the ebony chasm
And the words inside it
At the ghostly bottom.
And the spouse’s entrance.
And the hot annoyance
And hiding annoyance
And mimicking patience.
And the things he brings.
And the bowl of chips.
And the cranberry juice.
And something he says.
And the spouse’s withdrawal.
And something he said.
And the thought unfurling.
And the pop and spark.
And the thing he said.
And the flaring spark.
And the burning spark.
And the thing he said.
And the thing he said.
And the fissured chasm
And the words inside it
And the tender syllables
And the waxing rhythm
Of the blazing passage
Through the burning center
Laughter Over Tears 
