I've got nuthin.
Nada.
Zippo.
Some days my head is whirling with a thousand words all spilling out and then there are those days... like today, that every word that is pulled from my brain is like major surgery.
My husband, son and the cats are in hiding, slipping Hershey bars and cokes to me. I can't seem to make the words flow. I love when people say, "Oh come on. You're a writer. Just....write."
Why don't they ever say that to like a brain surgeon. "Oh come on. He's got a headache. Just go in there, see what's happening. We don't mind. Here, use my plastic knife from my lunch. I didn't even open it."
Or come on! You're a policeman. Go over there and tell those kids right now to stop drinking and driving fast. Yes those kids. With the big motorcycles and those tattoos. Hey....hey....where are you going???
Oh...Come on. You're an accountant. Find me some extra money. Right now. Here's my receipt. I just went to Stop and Shop. Did I overbuy on the ring dings and Jimmy Dean sausage Patties or should I get the no name bagels and forgo the cream cheese?
Everyone thinks writers are just faking it. That this is such a cake career. Puleese. It's hard stuff. Okay. The working in the pajamas, very cool. But that aside, it's hard. When you got nothing I mean...it's like the emptiest of theme parks. No rides are moving. No music playing. You can't even get a decent carnival game to work. Nada.
I remember my gym teacher, Mrs. Fontana told me once, years after I graduated and I was pregnant with my son that she was glad that I became a writer. "That's the perfect career for you. I used to watch you in my health class and you used to float away and come back just before the bell rang. Thank goodness you weren't a scientist." HELLO?????
Okay, so I daydreamed. Okay so apparently I wasn't as stealth at it as I thought. But back then, the creative faucet was running all the time. I mean I had stacks and stacks of journals and diaries and stories. You couldn't stop me. I was like a combination of Brenda Starr, Mark Twain, Emily Dickinson and Carol Burnett rolled up in a pair of overalls and a flannel shirt with a very bad shag haircut.
But now....the words they just take their precious time. They come when they want to, not when I want them to. But when they do...they make a lot more sense then they used to. Re-reading those classic journals and diaries I mean....EWWWW. Drek, bleck. I mean P.U.
But still. What I wouldn't give for a little less writer's block and a little more running faucet. Or maybe I just need another Hershey Bar. Oh good. Here comes the cat.
