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 out of writing. You’re blocked by the fact that your synapses aren’t firing fast enough or in an applicable sequence. You’re not cock blocked, but you’re brain blocked. You’re blocked, plain and simple. From words. From ideas. From sentences. From endings. Beginnings. Writing.
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 phrases 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 odd and refreshing to have strange titles like that, as if commenting on its own ongoing narrative situated from a time before we were even aware of it. And that’s how I see writer’s block: as an ongoing internal narrative, a seemingly endless circling around and around, mindlessly chasing one’s own tail, until the internal chatter abruptly halts or the tail is finally caught.
It does happen eventually. And then the real work can begin.
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 delete button.
And the procrastination.
And the scanning email.
And the empty email.
And the new start.
And the new sentence.
And the grating angst.
And the delete button.
And the delete button.
And the empty page.
And the unctuous page.
And the dragging moments.
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 why not?
And the search for something.
And the clutching distraction.
And the hope for insight.
And the myriad titles.
And the Xeroxed stories.
And the death of hope.
And the discarded television.
And the crawling seconds.
And the moments bound.
And the idle hours.
And the empty page.
And the empty page.
And the procrastination.
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 quiet reading.
And the crawling hours.
And the start and stutter.
And the start and stutter.
And the artless stabbing.
And the graceless attempt.
And the wilting confidence.
And the yawning chasm
And the words inside it
At the ghostly bottom.
And the warm paralysis.
And the death of hope.
And the spouse’s intrusion.
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 words 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 vast intention.
And the chasm splintering
And the words inside it
On the certain bottom.
And the thing he said.
And the spiking spark.
And the tender syllables.
And the waxing rhythm.
And the blazing paragraph.
And the delete forgotten.
And the delete forgotten.
And the email forgotten.
And the TV forgotten.
And the room forgotten.
And the world forgotten.
And the indefinable.
And the definable.
And the bound.
And the unbound.
And the unbound.
Laughter Over Tears 