Tag Archives: writer’s block

Hello, I’m Not Dead.

images-3I’m here, I’m here! I haven’t contracted the Bubonic plague or fallen off the Brooklyn Bridge (I did walk across the Brooklyn Bridge once so it could have happened). Nothing earth-shattering occurred to cause me to stop writing and communicating to all of you. I swear it.

So, what DID happen to me, then? I mean, it has been nearly a lifetime since I’ve last published a post (in case you are dying to know, that lifetime ago was August 8th).

I’m going to be straight with you, you know, shoot from the hip (do we know what that even means?):

I cannot chew gum and walk at the same time

That’s about it. After I went back to work full-time, I swear it was like someone took a sledge hammer to my life.

Or the proverbial Mac Truck drove right down the middle of me. Leaving my guts all over the sidewalk.

On that sidewalk are also dirty toilets, a sink full of dishes and two weeks’ worth of laundry. Never mind what that thing is growing inside my refrigerator. I suppose it could be The Kid’s science project, but I’m afraid to ask. Because I have a sneaking suspicion it isn’t. Call it intuition.

When I get home from work, and after I make dinner (yes, I do that. It takes the last hair of energy I have left but we do have to eat and take-out every night will only put about 50 pounds on me a minute. And besides they say it is bad for you and I can’t do that to my family. Although, so is my cooking, so…), I leave enough DNA on the couch I can actually be cloned. (Not a bad idea. I hope she does windows.)

June CleaverI have a lot of respect for women who can do it all…raise a family, keep the house in order, all that crap…while working at the same time. You are rock stars and make the rest of us look like slugs. Thank you for that.

I am here to say I have started to peel myself off the leather davenport, so worry no more. It took a couple of months, but I’ve devised a plan to get myself back among the living and do what I love most — write.

Who am I kidding? I’m not a planner. There is no plan. How about I just refer to it as “I’m Getting Off My Lazy Ass and Doing Something?” Works for me.

Writ'ers Block

Maybe this has been my problem all along?

I’m back and I’m on a mission. As soon as the blood finds it’s way to my brain and I actually know what I’m going to write about. I suppose I have also been in Writer’s Block Hell. It’s a place.

Next, I’ll tackle the toilets. Maybe. So what shall I name her? You know, my clone?

Breaking Up With Writer’s Block

For the next 2 weeks, I will be straying from my typical form of writing by participating in a 16 day writing prompt assignment.  This is day 1 of 16.  I welcome your comments and critiques. Thank you and enjoy!

It’s time for you and Writer’s Block to part ways.  Write a letter breaking up with Writer’s Block, starting out with, “Dear Writer’s Block, it’s not you, it’s me…”

Dear Writer’s Block,

It’s not you, it’s me.  I let you into my life, albeit unwillingly, but I let you in just the same.  And you take advantage.  I’m not really one for advantage taking, so I believe it is time we part ways.

I know we have been together for quite some time now and have begun to build a history.  Unfortunately, we are less like Brad and Angie and more like JFK and Marilyn.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but that didn’t end so well, did it?

This is not easy for me (yes it is).  But the sleepless nights, the blank paper, the smell of burnt toast escaping from my earholes — it’s all just too much.  My sanity eludes me.  And I miss the writer’s cramp in my left forefinger.  Basically, I am choosing cramps over you.  That should say it all.  Not to be crass, but do you get my point?

Don’t be sad.  I have this deep-seated feeling that we will meet again.  Just do me a favor?  Can you wait a bit before you come knocking on my door?  Allow me to recoup some of my treasured brain cells?  In other words, if the smoke detector isn’t going off, the coast may be clear.  But be gentle and don’t linger.  I wish you peace.  Sort of.  Actually, no I don’t.  You suck.

Most Sincerely Not Yours,

The Chick Who Wants Her Brain Back