The Writer's Block

It was a dark and stormy night when the wannabe author sat down to his task.  Let's see, Setting – Character – Conflict - ... - Action.

Yeah, right – Action.  Push that writer's block to the side and jump on the golden brick road to the adventure ahead.  He had been here before and probably has a much chance of success (not any) as the last hundred times he roosted here to hatch any idea.  More likely to lay another rotten egg.

Where was his story to tell?  On the other side of that big, old block obviously.  When life hands you a boulder, make rubble.  Chip away at the block and find its weak point.  Insert dynamite, add a spark, and stand back to admire the fireworks of destruction.

What a disappointment it will be if he does not find a story on the other side of that block. Perhaps the block is his story.

Who built this obstacle anyway?  Who set it in his path to fame, glory, or at least a story?

You did, you idiot, he tells himself.  You have not been chipping away at it; you have layered on to it.  Doodled graffiti on its surface and tossed more refuse atop to fuse it evermore firmly in place.

Now that you consider it, there is a certain majesty to its annoying ugliness. Maybe even some beautiful splatters in irritating juxtaposition to its scars of torturous mazes you have explored, never finding a way through.

The author marvels at his lifetime's creation, that inexpressible pile of crud that is his alone. It is not enough, but it is mine.