A Writer‘s Block
Here’s another morning with the same problem to consider.
It’s all about ideas from dreams last night and what to write.
Are my impressions just ego whims or good stuff to pen?
Questions like those give me a stomach ache. Blast it, too early for a break.
Okay, last week I wrote a schedule. Still, what shall I type?
Drat, another migraine. This one is going to hurt. Is this really a good day to work?
Instead of writing, how about tackling chores and dust the woodwork?
Then again, what I threw away yesterday in the trashcan I should re-consider.
There are certainly gems in balled up paper I could retype.
Maybe I’ll call my editor and get into a fight. She has no idea what I go through to write.
Ah, forget what I just said for Pete’s sake. It’s time for a coffee break.
On second thought, the little-one should still be asleep. I could tidy Piggly Wiggly’s pen.
If I walk softly, she’ll stay asleep while I separate her diaper from the safety pins.
Finally doing a job I can’t shirk. Shucks, I spilled my coffee. Can’t anything work?
There must be a writer’s God in my case. Glad there are no Pamper tabs to break.
Just got an inspiration! I have another problem for my taciturn character to consider.
Better get it down. I’ll give him stage fright. Christ, there’s no pencil in here with to write.
Hmm, there’s a magic maker behind the crib since last month! Forgot, it’s the wrong type.
Just remembered the ad for a new babysitter I was going to type.
Should I use the same paper again? With my luck I’d get someone just out of the pen.
And with this sad economy, don’t expect her to do more than read and write.
The caffeine must be wearing off, because a hair-brain idea like that wouldn’t work.
What about my mother-law? Now that’s a really dumb thought for me to consider.
The last time she left here there weren’t enough glasses left for me to break.
Perhaps I give her call anyway. She’s easy to hate. I’ll make another promise to break.
When I called her last time for advice, she sent an old vaporizer—the wrong type.
It’s crazy to think she would ever know anything I would seriously consider.
And don’t forget last Christmas what she gave me then—another crappy fountain pen.
Maybe I should just forget about getting published and find a job and do some real work.
But what else can I do. With my luck in this rut of a life, they’ll probably ask me to write.
Forget about shopping. The last time I went I hit a SUV, but I was in the right.
I put a dent into the angry man’s door, but at least his window didn’t break.
Oh god, look at the time. I haven’t ironed hubby’s shirt or gone to my desk to work.
Tomorrow he’ll want to wear his pinstripe. No spray starch. Only liquid—the wrong type.
There’s no way it is going to ready then, because it’s the one ruined by the leaky pen.
Then again, I’m still in a dither with too many decisions for any woman to consider.
Now, I have made up my mind. And this time I’m right. I’m going to sit down and type.
No more wasting time like thinking about writing with a pen.
Writer’s Block makes me shiver. The constant problem only procrastinators consider.