This morning, I woke up with a horrendous case of Writer's Block. You know the kind: written yourself into a corner, can't get out, will never get out, there goes the whole book… In the past, I've spent weeks and even months worrying about Writer's Block. I've written endless pages about how I wish it would just go away.
Several notable writers like to say that Writer's Block is imaginary. Ask any child how imaginary their monsters are. Try telling them to forget the monsters just because they're imaginary. The thing is, the harder you either struggle with them or try to ignore them, the bigger they get.
Yes I had Writer's Block. But I also had a deadline and pages to write. So I put the music on and wrote them, and let the Block do its grumbly mumbly thing in the background, both un-fed and un-resisted.
Accountants at Tax Season may get Accountants' Block, I don't know. But I'm pretty sure that any of them who keep their jobs have learned to how to uncross their eyes and get those blurry grey columns of numbers back in shape for another ten hours or whatever, because it's just something you do. They're not stuck on this precious cultural fantasy that there's this fragile thing called the Muse, that comes and goes on a whim. Professional Athletes don't hold off the championship because they're not feeling quite on their game. They learn pretty darn fast how to get themselves back on their game, and even more importantly, how to go play anyway.
In one Universe, I'm still sitting here at this very moment, still blocked and bemoaning that I'll never get anywhere. Thankfully in this one, I spent an hour writing absolute garbage before everything suddenly clicked, and now two hours later, I'm sitting here feeling the euphoria of a good chapter well-written.