Hey buddy, can you spare a line?
Karen Krueger
I've heard it's called writers block. That point in your "supposed" writing career where you sit for hours and stare at the blank computer screen or paper, and wait. And wait. And wait, for some divine inspiration to strike you from out of the blue.
There is an audible void in your head. Nothing comes to you. A river of crumpled paper flows from your garbage. A current of empty lines and false starts begins to consume you. Oh where is your muse when you need her? Out amusing someone else, no doubt. Feeding someone else heaping spoonfuls of luscious lines, while your brain, your starving brain, would give its last piece of gray matter for one morsel of motivation.
You credit the murky nothingness on your surroundings. You blame the dog for barking and the cat for breathing. You shamelessly hit alt tab on your computer to hide your 100th game of solitaire with an old piece of writing when anyone walks in the room. You chastise your intruding friend or family member for interrupting your writing. Never mind you aren't really writing.
You utilize them as an excuse to leave. They've broken your concentration Perhaps, if you go somewhere more stimulating you can write. Announcing this loudly and dramatically, you grab your backpack and notebook - have pen will travel. You run, you walk, you drive. You do anything that will put miles between you and the enemy, "Writers Block." You find yourself on a park bench, or a coffee house or simply parked on the side of the road far from home. And you wait.
A prompt is what you need! A prompt, a prompt your kingdom for a prompt! Suddenly an idea comes to you! Writing as fast as you can, with your lucky pen, you struggle to keep up with the flow. It's a miracle! It's amazing! It's a guy in purple striped Zubas. You think to yourself, "Can you legally wear those with a suit coat." You've been distracted! You looked up. You broke the magical current that flowed from your mind to your hand to your pen and now all you are left with is the puzzling question of…why anyone ever thought baggy knit pants in wild colors was a fashion statement.
Looking back to you paper you hope to pick up where you left off. You read what you've written. You develop a trance like state staring at your last punctuation mark. A period. It seems so final. You vaguely remember someone telling you, "There's no such thing as writers block." He said, "It's a myth." He said, "It was a man made stumbling block." He said, "If you couldn't write over it, you should write around it." He said, "There was no such thing. No such thing"
Dazed and confused you close your notebook and sigh. It's you and an empty paper. How did it come to this? Words, words everywhere but not a one to write. You've become poemless.
A man walks by. Solemnly you hold out your notebook and pen to him. "Hey buddy can you spare a line?"