Oh, all you writers know what I'm talking about.
If you could just close your eyes really tight and then look at your blank page again with your mind full of ideas, you would BLINK with emphasis.
But alas, the block remains.

So what now you ask? I could wait. But that never ends well because your fingers itch with a story, a line, a plot to unwind, a passion, a smell, to write, to tell. It's hunger like no other to write till you bleed, to re-read, all the lines in between.

But you can't write. It's like you're hands are angry from those endless writing nights, and turn on you with spite. But all a writer can do is write. And a day without writing, well it just isn't right.

So what the hell do I do? Get dressed, put on the right, the left shoe. Examine the world with the eyes you read with, write with, live through. Writer's block is like what the elderly must feel like. No control over their bodies with an itch to go running. The room's still, not spinning. When you write it's like you go into your own orbit, your own atmosphere, but there's no writing there, there's no writing here.

As a writer you have one secret, one untold fear. What if one day the writer's block takes you over like a chronic condition. No intermission, and so you ask permission. Dear imagination, inspiration, love, defeat, please give me something, a new project to complete. I want to write, but you've built a wall for no reason. Is my mind turning on me? In between my ears lies treason.

So today I'll find my words. My mind is my new opponent. I challenge you to write.

iv.iv.vi