Snark Comes to Spark

By Ellen Notbohm

As I wake this morning after another night of badly broken sleep, I see my pencils sitting there on the nightstand in the half-light, their points dulled from the last time I used them. Which was—when? My weary thought is, I can’t write this morning. My pencils are dull.

My pencils are pointless, literally and figuratively.

The resistance to writing, the fear of having nothing to say, the fear of writing poorly—it’s common to many writers who’re between inspirations....