I do not think they should call it Writer’s Block
That makes me think of being on a train in a tunnel and
finding a huge pile of rocks on the track.
You stop the train, then take them off so that you can pass.
Easy.
Instead it’s more of a Writer’s Snake.
One that squeezes and constricts
if your hand comes near the page.
Until all you are left with are the voices in your head:
Bad idea.
Not good enough.
Don’t even try that, it won’t work.
Soon they are joined by others,
creating a cacophonous chorus.
Coworkers: Do this!
Patrons: Help Me!
Customers: Find this!
Son: Don’t worry so much.
Husband: Don’t be up late.
You don’t listen to the last bit of advice and you stay up late reading.
Which means you sleep through the alarm,
destroying any chance of getting up early to write.
And another day passes with nothing to show for it.
The animals don’t speak, yet vie for your attention.
The piles of dishes threatens to topple over
and crush you underneath.
And the internet is a force that will not be ignored.
You wish for, as another writer friend put it this week,
that silver lasso that would appear out of thin air.
You can reach for it and it pulls you out of the muck and mire.
You almost had it when you stumbled on the word—zeugma—in your reading.
Instead you find your self with a noose that tightens
and squashes any hope of putting pen to paper.
The usual tricks don’t work:
a cup of coffee
a cup of tea
something sweet
arranging things in your writing spot
going out to a quiet table in a café.
The Writer’s Snake will not be appeased.
The page in front of you remains umarked.
Unsullied.
Unerringly and unequivocally blank.
The voice inside adopts a comforting tone:
There’s always next week.
Let us go then, you and I 