Experiencing writer’s block sounds like a sophisticated affliction reserved for serious writers of serious purpose. I am not worthy of it, for obvious reasons. It must secure a stronghold and wait for the perfect struggle; a struggle far beyond the mere angels and demons crisis of conscience that professional writers suffer for their craft. Writers whose genius is gripped in the grueling duel between propriety and popularity.
Oh, the unfairness of it all!
Struggles of such magnitude are best left to the professionals. For me, it’s just been a big ol rut-a-saurus, plain and simple. Lately I haven’t gotten much further than creating post titles. One I have been kicking around for a few days is, The Blog Stops Here: A Fond Farewell
I’m kidding, of course. Dialogue exercises kept me busy yesterday. The day before, I had stuff to do, but my car wouldn’t start. I had to get a new battery. I pulled into a local garage and raised the hood so the mechanic could test the battery. He did and I said, “Really? I need to replace a three year old battery?” and no kidding, the mechanic said to me, “I wouldn’t lie to you lady, what do you think this means,” as he tugged on the cross hanging from a chain around his neck. I swear I almost slammed it in reverse.
When I talked to my dad last night, he said that’s exactly what I should have done.
I must be getting soft. All those years of reacting have finally taken their toll. Maybe I’ve lost the ability to articulate an appropriate response to the low hanging fruit loops all around me. That’s the only explanation. Why else would I let so many opportunities slip by without so much as a comment? I could write my reaction to a number of current events, but the words just won’t come. My reaction to the Olympic opening ceremony, for instance, was only one word, disturbing. My reaction to the badminton scandal was simply, seriously?
The professionals get writer’s block. Snoberific!
It’s still too hot for words.