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Writer’s block – a dull name for a horribly dull feeling. I picture my parietal cortex lying on a well-used wooden cutting board, an Alaskan ulu knife beside it, eager, the way all knives are.
I don’t mean to overdramatize. That is how it feels: Like part of my brain is utterly inaccessible. It might still be inside my skull. It might be in the kitchen with the dirty ice cream bowl. Either way, all I get is a headache.
Fretting over reasons for writer’s block has never helped me a bit. Like most self-analysis, it only leads to more ice cream. The only thing that works is, unfortunately, writing – which is the only cure I know for most of my problems and which is why writer’s block leaves me feeling so severed.
Maybe other people can talk with friends about their problems, or toss them away with a Frisbee, or simply think their way through.
I do not play Frisbee. Until I see my own words on a screen, I am like the proverbial fox in the foxhole: It seems like I make sense, but I don’t and there’s too many guns.
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