Earlier today, I knew exactly what I was going to blog about. Now, I’m having writer’s block. This is what I get for not writing my ideas down earlier.
Well, instead of whatever I’d been planning before, have a short piece I wrote (at a point in time when I wasn’t having this problem) concerning writer’s block:
She glared at the object before her; the useless blank sheet of paper just sat there, blocking all of her ideas from being expressed on it. Angrily, she picked up the pencil that she was sure must be aligned with the paper against her, and violently stabbed its point at the white surface. The point broke savagely, sending splinters flying a centimeter into the air and the broken tip skidding off against the paper until it came to rest an inch away from the point of impact. Unsatisfied, she rubbed the mutilated pencil-top over the mocking blank sheet, creating scratch marks until, suddenly, there was a ripping noise and the pencil scraped through to the desk, slicing messily into the paper where she madly guided it.
When the offending paper was ripped beyond repair and the pencil top no longer able to cause the type of damage she was looking for, she discarded both.
Then, she glared at the object before her; the useless empty desk. She had used up all of her paper and pencils. But she hadn’t been able to express anything other than her inability to express herself all day. She glared glumly at the pile of papers- half were mutilated and half were crumpled balls containing almost-ideas- that sat next to her desk, her wastepaper basket having overflowed sometime ago.
A Thousand Imaginings 