I have Writer’s Block.
There, I said it. It’s all out in the open, nowhere to hide. Not that I’ve been able to hide from Writer’s Block.
I haven’t had a good idea in so long, and I can feel Writer’s Block looking over my shoulder, even now. Staring at every word I write on this blank white page and telling me it’s not good. And it’s not going to get better.
I sit here and wait for my Muse. She is kind, friendly and always knows what to say. But he showed up instead and is simply determined to make my life miserable. I finally have the time to sit and let the words flow, but before they can make it out of my brain, he crunches them with his heel, grinds them to dust on the floor.
Dreams of writing the next big novel get squashed when Writer’s Block is around. He’s like that relative that you just can’t seem to be rid of, while they eat all your food and drink all your beer and take over your house like it’s their own, making you feel like you’ll never be alone or happy again.
He makes me rush my work, like an overbearing boss who cares more about quantity than quality. Of course Writer’s Block would prefer I succeed at neither, but beggars can’t be choosers, and if I’m going to write, he’s at least going to make sure it’s bad. Make sure I know it, and everyone else does too.
Maybe one of these days, he’ll back off long enough for me to write something I can be proud of. Maybe he’ll get bored of me and move on to the next unsuspecting victim of his malicious schemes .
Then creativity will flow like the water in the ocean keeping with the magnetic pull of the moon, unable to resist its nature.
Until then, though, my unwelcome mind-guest will continue to keep my company. It must be better than being totally alone, forever.