I used to smile when I heard people complain about writer’s block. “What in the hell are they talking about? All you gotta do is start writing.”
I am not smiling now.
I have got the biggest, nastiest, stinkiest case of writer’s block that anyone anywhere ever had since the first Chinese dude drew signs inside a tortoise shell. I’ve tried to write today’s blog a dozen different times and each one has petered out like a Trump promise.
Here are today’s dead blogs:
- The incredible reading experience I’m undergoing as I weed my way, slowly, through Freud’s “The Interpretation of Dreams.”
- The incredible eating experience of making my own sourdough bread.
- The incredible ridiculousness of cycling as a path to longevity.
- The incredible lameness of the four lameheads who rode a 44-minute TTT last weekend.
- The incredible credulity of people who still don’t believe that we live in a corporatist police state built on prisons and slave labor.
- The incredible awesomeness of my new carbon fiber wheels which are made exclusively of.
- The incredible depressive effect that TT bikes have on bike racing.
- What I had for breakfast.
Yet no sooner did I set down the basic first sentence than each topic withered on the vine, childless, unable to procreate little baby sentences so that it could grow up into a proper blog about bicycling and something.
The writer’s block had me by the throat as I chewed my way through dinner. Dinner tastes awful when you still have a blog to write, and the more I procrastinated the worse it got. Suds in the sink as I washed the plates, a couple of trips to the dumpster, a few dispirited checks of my phone, but the fear and loathing only increased.
You would think that after seven years of more or less daily scribblings and scrawlings I would have a pattern, a tried-and-true method, a formula into which I could dump the parts and out would come the sausage, but no, I don’t. Each day is a new Sisyphean struggle. The boulder is right back at the bottom of the dogdamned hill and the only person who’s gonna push it back up is me.
Somewhere between the forks and the broccoli bits stuck to the colander, it hit me: I would lose this round to writer’s block. For the first time since 2011 I’d sit down and will the words to come, and none would. Sure, I’ve skipped plenty of days, but never once have I tried to get something out and failed.
There’s a first time for everything. Today will have to be the first day I wanted to publish a blog and couldn’t.
Whoops! I did it again.
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