It is the eve of the day in which I have nothing written and ready for posting to my blog. For the past week I’ve been dealing with a case of writer’s block.
Generally, writer’s block doesn’t stick around this long – maybe two or three days at worst – then the flood gate opens and I’ll have five to 10 pieces written, edited and ready for publication. Not this time though – and this is the second time it has happened in the last two-months.
Naturally, I analyzed what could be causing this and I came up with a rather disturbing conclusion: my blockage is due to a deep-seated fear that I will run out of material to write about. I could have knocked myself over with a feather, turned writing quill.
For years, I’ve claimed that my ability to write – whether you think it’s good, bad or indifferent – has been on loan from God. This means the skill is not actually mine and subject to recall at the time of my death or even prior should He so chose.
But I’m not talking about the skill of word smithing – I’m speaking of material. That’s always been left up to me to decide on – again – good, bad or indifferently.
So here I am – stuck – like my truck in a dune of loose, fine sand and all I have are my hands to dig at the tire with. If it doesn’t become unstuck soon there are only two choices – wait for another passerby or walk back the way I came to the main road and get help.
Both are fine options. After all, I view them through my personality of being both stubborn and being a man of action.
At the moment, I’m digging like hell, hoping, when it’s actually time to hoof it.