I Want Writer’s Block
I can’t get writer’s block!
Try as I might, I am unable to quiet my mind. I imagine the brain of a person with writer’s block might look something like this:
It’s barren and desolate, it’s where ideas go to die alone. Maybe the ideas were lured here by a false promise of something too good to be true, like a shimmery mirage; an oasis with a Dr. Pepper machine. Maybe they were born here, looked up at the sun, said “Fuck it.” and just gave up. Maybe the ideas parachuted in here by accident, tried hiking out together and eventually ran out of water and supplies, then turned on each other with their survival knives. I imagine the last surviving idea eventually picked the bones of its comrades clean after a fair amount of deliberation, before venturing forth in the blistering heat and finally succumbing to dehydration, exposure and madness. “I could have been so much more…” it mumbles through cracked, parched lips.
“I shouldn’t have eaten them.”
When it comes to ideas, I think my mind might look more like this:
Look at that frothy deluge of ideas. Ideas spewing out of my head at a healthy, almost unbelievable rate. A torrent that saturates everything in the stupidly wide spray zone uncompromisingly. The veins and arteries in my neck are bulging with strain; my muscles can barely control the primal force with which my creativity flows out of me and into the aether. How will you react in the presence of this mighty veritable river of possibility? You could be like Mr. Fitchburg up there and just drool at my ideas from afar, metaphorically and mentally ‘dipping your toes’ into them from time to time to test the, ahem, waters. Or you could be like Blue Shirt, and just accept it. Don’t struggle, Blue Shirt. Just let it happen. Let the full flood of my ideas spray out of my mouth and nose with the strength of a fire hose. Accept your fate, embrace it fully. Get that expression of resistance off of your face; stop lamenting for ‘what could have been’. You’re here now, in this reality, and your new purpose in life is to soak up my ideas. Don’t reject them, use them! Look – here! I’m giving them to you!
Sometimes, the energy that it takes to freely donate so much good to the world with no thought of repayment taxes me. But the ideas don’t stop, they never stop. What I wouldn’t give for some peace and quiet in my mind, for a temporary reprieve. The endless armies of Sarumon inside of my head are bashing at the gates of my mouth every second, trying to get out like an inverse Lord of the Rings II assault of Helm’s Deep. A few brave heroes in my psyche are tasked with keeping the legions at bay, but they can only hold out for so long before reinforcements arrive. When they fail, the result is a contemplation about alien sex or musings about when to let go when someone’s being ripped in half by a monster. This is all day until I finally fall asleep, where I am then assaulted by tarantulas, Aliens, zombies, bees or sharks in Dreamworld. And then, the next morning, like mini mental Prometheuses, my heroes must rise and do battle once again against the endless hordes. And so it goes.
I need a break. I want writer’s block. I want all creatures to be cleared from play for the cost of two colorless and two white.
I want to think about nothing, or at least, to not think about so much all at once all the time. I want to stop cross referencing every single new thing I hear or read with every single stored movie quote or song lyric in the file cabinet of my mind, looking for similarities, comparisons or hidden hilarity. But how to stop the flood? How to stem the tide? My warriors grow weary.
Oh, what’s this? Could it be? Reinforcements??
Thank God for you, Yoshimitsu. You came just in time.