I've had writer's block. No long stories, no excuses, just writer's block. I say "just writer's block" because, to the general populace, writer's block is not an earth-shattering phenomenon. Brain surgeon's block, now that would be something, Air traffic controller's block- again- you'd probably sit up and take notice of that, but writer's block... who, but me, finds it devastating.
Writer's block kind of rates up there with hampster breeder's block, or used car dealer's block or even Pop-Tart packager's block. Don't get me wrong, I think we'd eventually notice it if enough Pop-Tart packagers came down with a block at the same time, but you know what I mean.
Writer's block is under-acknowledged. Granted, it doesn't panic us like a block involving surgeons, it doesn't thrill us either. It is just blase'. Still, it's not a good thing. Most of the time, a block is not a good thing. It is a dam on the human psyche, the Hoover dam on the river of artistry. Rarely can any good come of it. Having said that, I must say I just thought of a good block- Serial Killer's block. Bad for them, great for us. Imagine, being a serial killer and waking up one morning (much as I did last month) saying "I just can't think of anything to kill (in my case write)". "I don't feel like killing, nothing seems like it is fun to kill, maybe people aren't even noticing anymore." Perhaps SK (serial Killer) actually sat there, weapon of choice in hand, waiting for inspiration- like I did. The days rolled on. He/she picked up the newspaper. Damn! Other people were able to kill! There it was in black and white right there in the local paper. Other people didn't have Serial Killer's block. They weren't all depressed because of the state unemployment rate, the recession, the rising cost of gasoline- nope, there they were just killing like usual. And doing a good job too. In reading the articles in the paper, SK realizes not only do they not have a block, they are actually being innovative and unique. Practicing their craft as the expression goes.
Well, anyway. That's what happened to me. Nothing was noteworthy, nothing was funny, and nothing could pull me out of the funk I had gotten myself into. I sat for weeks with my laptop poised- only to end up writing...nothing. Not even on facebook. Not a twitter, not a smile, not a wink on the personals. I could barely even type in a websearch. And that was that. I locked myself in a quiet room. So quiet, I could hear my heartbeat. I could hear my breath sounds. I could hear the people down the street eating spaghetti. I counted how many dissecting lines the walls, ceiling and foor of a room have. I cried at the fact I didn't end up going to prom, but rather stayed in Adrian Dutton's downstairs bedroom watching Monty Python reruns and thinking I was so cool. I took several trips down memory lane, trips so long I had to pack a lunch. A month went by. Finally, slowly but surely, my fingers started to move across the keyboard. "STOP MENTALLY MASTERBATING" they typed of their own accord.
And it was true. Who the F*&!! did I think I was? Hemmingway? It was a damn humor blog for Peanutbutter's sake! It wasn't slated for the NYT bestsellers list! I hurried to complete something, anything to ease the length of my absence- writer's block indeed. Try and explain that to a brain surgeon.
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