Writers Block Sucks by Leia Shaw

I haven’t written anything more than a few blog posts – most of which were recycled – and some facebook statuses in over two months.

Why, you ask.

Because of writers block.

So writers block is a real thing, you wonder. And it plagues even you?

‘Tis true.

But you’ve written five books in two years! you exclaim.

Yes, thank you for pointing that out. *rolling eyes* You’re not very helpful, you know.

I’m just trying to make a point, you say. If you’re not careful, you could descend into madness and start having conversations with yourself in perfectly innocent blog posts.

*pause*

Nah, that’ll never happen.

So how does a writer beat writer’s block, you ask. It’s common enough, right? Everyone has their moments.

I’m sure there are marvelous techniques you can google to help inspire and motivate your little minds. Listening to music, making a storyboard, dancing naked around a stack of books, praying to the writing gods, banging your head against the table over and over until your forehead starts taking on a curved shape with little ridges on one side. Those are all excellent ideas!

But this post isn’t about you. It’s about me. And I tried every one of those and all it got me was a concussion and some strange looks from the neighbors. Sidenote: if you go the naked dancing route, it’s probably just as effective to do it indoors with the curtains shut.

You couldn’t pay me to write to something good right now. You could be like, Leia, I will give you a thousand dollars cash right, in singles, you could go all Magic Mike at the local strip joint, just imagine how long you can ogle the goods with one thousand dollar bills, if you write a compelling post about…we’ll keep it easy…puppies. And I wouldn’t be able to get past the first sentence, “puppies are compelling.”

To be even more dramatic, you could put a gun to my head and order me to write something , anything, and I’d end up rambling about how I can’t write anything even with a gun to my head.

You’re so dramatic, Leia, you say. You can’t possibly know what you’d do in those circumstances.

I can. I bribed the creepy guy down the street to point a gun at my head while I write this post. His name is Jim. Say hi, Jim. How did you think I could write this in the first place?

So is all hope lost, you ask with tears in your eyes. You’ll never write again?

Probably. And thank you for your tears. I shall bottle them and keep them as a momento from my writing days.

*Holds paper to my wrist* Goodbye, cruel world!

 

 

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