A Road Less Travelled

I would really like to be able to write something nifty and witty. I would take the mallet of awesome words and bash through the wall of Writer’s Block. I would burst out the other side and stand triumphant before a crowd of the few and the faithful who care about my words. There would be a smattering of golf claps and then I would leap forward to accomplish another feat of wordsmithing worthy of remembering for minutes and minutes. Behind me the Wall of Writer’s Block would crumble in the sun. The dust from its crumblings would be scattered to the eight winds never to reform, never to trouble me again.

Instead I’m sitting in front of my computer trying, with a just a dab of panic, to find something nifty to write about. I started writing about the realization I had about myself last night because of Theresa talking about the book on home design she’s reading. I was going to write about how I realized that I like big, open spaces and why. I figured out why I’ve never felt comfortable at a certain house and that it wasn’t anything I was doing wrong. I even figured out why I was freaking over the seating arrangement I’d set up outside. But that’s not interesting enough to write about.

I started writing about the insane, crazy, psycho move I was involved in on Saturday. I was going to write about how I felt like I was standing on the line between the women of the group and the men. I was lifting boxes here and there, but then I stopped that to finish packing the old apartment. When I got to the new house I started helping unload, but I stopped to clean the new kitchen. And then I stood in the backyard drinking beer with the guys. It was a peculiar day. And I was going to write about it, but it’s too finicky to find the right words; I could easily be misunderstood. So I’m not going to write about that.

Which leaves me with writing about writer’s block. It’s not that I can’t think of anything to write about. It’s just that I can’t write about anything. I’ve even composed posts and ideas in my head. But apparently my head isn’t on speaking terms with my fingers so we’re stuck with nothing written.

I even had this nifty thought to write a series of vignettes all starting with the same phrase, but making that phrase mean something vastly different each time.

“He reached for her, but at the last minute she ducked out of his reach. His hands closed on air where her throat had been and he swore in frustration. He whirled just as she drew a gun and leveled it at his chest.”

“He reached for her, but just as his hand touched her pillow he remembered she was gone. He had laid her to rest in the ground and now she would never lie beside him again. He rested his hand against the empty pillow and cried long into the night.”

“He reached for her and caught her just as she jumped from the swing. The wind played with her curls as she cackled at her own cleverness. He tossed her up in air once, twice before setting her feet back on the ground. She ran toward the swing set to do it all again.”

See? It was going to be brilliant. But it’s just never going to happen at this point. I’m just going to be stuck with nothing interesting to write about. I guess the Great Block won again.