The Trouble with Writing

From the beginning of time, writers have whinged and moaned over a peculiar condition that hinders their efforts. A pest of the mind that either clouds your clarity or dissipates your creative clouds. Invisible and debilitating; a common disease still yet uncured. You guessed it, the old ‘writer’s block’.

Not unlike the common cold, it stays as long as it pleases. A variety of methods provide temporary relief, but time is the only true combatant. So what of this thing? And why do I seek to make use of its uselessness? Am I simply making excuses for my lack of performance?

The answer is yes.

Because its not all writer’s block. Its my bad habits, my lack of discipline, self doubt, and the hangovers I get from my bad habits…not enough? Here’s another excuse: Love. Many writers claim death to their literary conviction once love strips them of their masochistic woes. The greatest source for a writer’s inspiration is yearning, as it propels one to desperate feats in an attempt to fill the void. Often leading to the creation of something beautiful, the reward for suffering, and true object of desire. The old adage, ‘with sacrifice comes recompense’ has been proven time and time again, as the most tormented authors come to author the most treasured literature.

So, I blame my husband. Damn him for making me happy. I’m trying to write here!

Enough excuses. I need to face up to the facts and admit…its my fault I can’t commit. There is some truth to writer’s block, though for me, its a minor issue. Discipline is my main obstacle, and boy, do I know it. I am a spoiled child in the body of an adult. My parents really should have beaten me some because man, do I walk around like I own the place. Cheeky fuck. And yet, what have I done to earn my worth in salt?

Truth is; not nearly enough.

Luckily, I have proven to be quite self-reflective in my sobering hours…and so, it appears that at the very least, I must do something. Either I continue to remain in this awkward limbo, or scrub harshly at this existing epidermis and shed this layer of lazy skin. It is a comforting layer after all. But I suddenly recall the notion made famous by Einstein that ‘the definition of madness is repeating the same actions over and over again, expecting different results.’ And so my choice is thus simplified further. Either I am mad or I am in need of a good kick up the arse!

Alright, so let’s refresh on the goal at hand: To Earn My Worth in Salt

Plan of attack: Kick up the arse! Followed by a strong dose of discipline (Good luck!!)

Sign of success: More frequent posts, that aren’t crap

Now, after I write one of these ditties on the old blog-o, I often reward myself with two fingers of whiskey. But in an attempt to reinvent this shitty wheel, I’ll do gin instead. Kidding!

I will instead bring an old mantra to the forefront of my mind. In fact, I kept a tangible reminder from my younger days and it still hangs dusty on my grotty cork board…good old Anthony Burgess puts us all to shame. Tonight’s treat will be two shakes of the fist *Homer Simpson style* in the direction of that very reminder.

Not as satisfying.