Sometimes the infamous writer’s block comes plummeting out of the sky and lands right in my path. Other times the problem is the writer’s bully club that comes up from behind and whacks me over the head. The writer gods know I dig my way through the block, even if it means blood from under the fingernails. Or I stagger to my feet and put down words as dizzy on the page as I feel in my brain.
Then there is the writer’s trip wire. I’m singing along, skipping down the plot path, and that shining wire pulled across my way just doesn’t catch my attention until I’m face down in the dirt. Was I going some where? And don’t forget the writer’s darts. Fairies and demons are in cahoots to flick poison darts at my neck, my arms, my legs. I swat as many as I can away, but eventually that poison of self-doubt and insecurity immobilizes me. A good stiff drink seems like an antidote, but that really just makes the poison feel good. The only true cure is to keep moving and work it through my system.
There’s the writer’s pit. When I fall in there, I say the foolish things that can be said only in the dark when I can’t look anyone in the eye–you go on without me! Don’t worry! I’ll be fine.
The writer’s looking-glass is especially deceptive. Stare into the reflection and I might spend too much time posing for author photos and practicing for my Terri Gross interview and perfecting my autograph. But it is a bit difficult to write on glass. Better to break the damn thing (without slashing wrists preferably).
One way or another I stumble and crawl to…