The problem with writer's block Is that it isn't some mystical thing, Some boogeyman hiding in our inkwells And under our notepads. It is simply one term Encompassing a number of ailments.
Writer's block is being incapable of settling on a topic. It is incessant song stuck in our head, Preventing us from thinking up our own verse. It is the checklist of errands and responsibilities We may have forgotten that day.
Writer's block is remembering we forgot to turn off the oven, Or the TV Or the lights in the kitchen, Just as we sat down with a pen. It is the ominous cloud of self-doubt That chases away an semblance of a first line Or a second Or a conclusion. It is the sticky, complacent boredom, Or the absence of motivation. And sometimes it is the lack of desire, Like a fire dying down No flames here, but the embers still hot with potential We wait for new wood to burn.
It is the fear of criticism, The self-loathing that we discredit ourselves with, And it manifests is all forms Or just one.
It is a gift, The mark of a writer, Like the calluses from our pens And it is also our curse. Literature's hazing technique, Weeding out those that would give up on her At first signs of resistance. Persist, And call yourself a true writer at heart.