Writer’s Block. It gets me every time.
Once upon time, there was a Dad, and he was at work. While sitting at his counter, he and his boss saw a scene so absurd it was destined to be recounted a million times at the dinner table, family gatherings, casual conversations with strangers, and, of course, to the wilting ears of his uneager children.
While strolling through the aisles of the supermarket, a rather large lady with a funny hat stopped in front of the Gas-X. Unfortunately, she was too late in her attempts. Clearly unashamed of her own bodily function, she let loose a cry born of dairy, beans and broccoli from the proverbial cheese with the proverbial knife. Did she flinch? Did she hang her head in shame? Nay–instead of tucking her tail between her legs, she raised her head high and announced to every man, woman and child within earshot this now immortal phrase: “Milk–it gets me every time!”
Regrettably, I have been struck with Writer’s Block’s fatal arrow, and it has pierced my very heart. I’m convinced that it’s a disease, and like that unabashed woman’s intolerance to milk products, I have found a great bodily weakness in staring at a blank page.
On a quest to rid myself of this sickness of Blank Brain, I went straight to work blowing my extra cash on Amazon. I purchased several books, all promising a cure to this illness, swearing avidly on their tactics to banish the reader’s lack of thought process.
I read those books. I enjoyed each one thoroughly. But afterward, when I returned to that in the works novel of mine, I found that I had made a grave mistake. Sure, I had memorized lists of how to get rid of the dreaded Block, but I had failed to actually plan the next phase of my plot. I had allowed dispassion to taint the sweet relationship between my fictional story and my heart, forsaking its iffy writing and complicated plot for another writer’s work. I was an adulteress if ever there was one.
So I attempted to amend myself with my book. I tried everything–but it seems even the Fireproof relationship plan could not salvage this love. I gave it daily attention, did nice things for it like adding tables of contents and acknowledgements that I mostly made up, but it’s plot continued to drift aimlessly, and my characters continued to speak in long, complicated sentences that my sister had to get a dictionary out to understand.
There was only one thing left to try. I had to act fast, lest I be tempted by the joys of short story writing or even blogging to avoid my problems. I totally turned things around. I planned out some interesting outings for us, that would hopefully allow us to see eye to eye for once. I stopped bemoaning its lack of historical accuracy, and cross referenced Wikipedia and library books. Some color was beginning to come back into our life together. We were laughing together again at its lame jokes, chuckling at its ironies, and crying together when something lamentable was placed into its pages.
Surprisingly, my frustrations with other projects suddenly liquified into nothingness. I suddenly thought clearly about that Lit composition, could blog with ease and great smugness as I read my own writing. By fixing the root of my problem, the other issues flew away.
So don’t let Writer’s Block get you down. Instead, hold your chin up, and cry out from atop your high horse your pride of the natural functions of life–flatulence and communication.