Writers Block

I kept trying to write a new post. Half formulated thoughts would motivate me to start a post, but after half a dozen attempts I decided that this writing assignment from a class a couple years ago might be the best fit  ;-)


Writers Block? Funny you should mention IT. As a matter of fact I know IT well, too well. If I am with a paper and pen, or sitting at my laptop, fingers over the keys you can be sure that IT will soon appear. IT is small at first, roughly the size of a Chinese take-out box. However in the space of a moment IT expands. IT makes the room seem smaller, crowding out all thoughts, making you feel like your socks are too tight.

IT gives you a sick feeling in your stomach, how it feels before parachuting. IT looks over at you, lamenting your feeble attempts, pointing a blue finger at you. Yes, blue. If you look you'll notice that IT is blue, the blue that is almost black, somehow sadder than black, faded a tint, like socks that have been washed too often. Never uttering a sound, yet ITs large eyes stare so intently that you swear the criticism is audible. IT seems to be saying "You can't ! No matter how hard you try you can't!" Yet IT remains dark, and silent. “NO!” I cry but ITs oppressive nearness stifles my pleas.

IT tries to force me to stop writing. Begs me to abandon my pen. To fall ill with that mysteriously odious malady: to let myself be blocked. IT chokes out the light in the room, causing the page to fall dark. ITs incredible hugeness and weight press in around me, and I can scarcely breathe. ITs scent fills my nose. The smell of dirt. Not garden dirt, not the smell of dirt after a rain, or when it has been freshly dug. No, IT has the smell of dirty dirt. Like the corner of the basement that never gets swept or soccer cleats covered in mud from Saturdays game. The game where you got creamed, with a hundred plays that could have gone better. IT smells of staleness, of failure. And suddenly all words are gone. The cursor blinks. The page stays blank. My beautiful dreams for how it should turn out lay untouched, locked in my head, kept there by the pressure from IT.

As I write this now ITs blueness and cold dank smell are creeping up. But I am faster than IT. At least this time I am . I scribble down words as fast as I can. IT is leaving now, IT knows I am in control. I can’t give in. If I do its mocking look will be joined by looks from the page in front of me, begging to be written on. Truly the only way to make IT leave is to ignore IT. To fervently put words on the page. Any words. IT tries to gain control again, telling me that my words are far from being the best IT has read. Far from the best I have written. They aren’t just exactly how I meant them to be. Upon finding me in total agreement however IT slowly starts to shrink. I keep typing, keep streaming second rate words from head to hand. IT is small now, and with a final key stroke I send it scurrying off to afflict another. But never fear, I'll meet with IT again. My tormentor, oppressor, my motivator.