5:19 AM Isabelle wrote a word here and there on a blank page. She had been stuck for over a week. She was beginning to fear she’d never write again or that her writing was mediocre at best. Was it the discovery of AI and playing with the image features? The visual side of her brain was fighting for control. After all, she had been an artist all her life—acrylic paintings, pen and ink drawings, charcoal, colored pencils, watercolor, and printmaking. Even sculptures felt familiar to her. Writing was just something she’d picked up as part of her retirement. Encouraged by her college professor that her writing was worthy of publication, she began writing prolifically every day.
Lately, however, she has been staring at blank pages or very short paragraphs with no substance. Relying on visual images instead of writing on her blogs.
Is this what writer’s block feels like? She wondered as she typed the few words she could squeeze out. Just keep writing, she told herself. The grinding of rusty gears and the coming alive of her writing imagination transformed her paragraph into a short flash story, where reality and fiction blurred.
Perhaps a cup of coffee will help awaken the sleeper. Mushroom coffee will lift the fog. She stumbled to the kitchen, trying not to wake up her roommate, whose bedroom is near the kitchen. Turned on the Keurig to heat some water and measured out a wooden spoonful of mushroom coffee powder into her favorite coffee mug. The old gear creaked, turning slowly; the stiff fingers began loosening on the typewriter. Keep going, she thought to herself; you got this.
The battle with the fog monster began in earnest as she found out she was out of coffee creamer and now had to drink a cup of mushroom coffee with no creamer- blah, what a disappointment. Oh, it was on now- mano a mano. The fog monster wrapped around her arm, trying to keep her from writing. The bitterness of the mushroom coffee reminded her of the bitterness of the struggle. Her knuckles popped as she stomped out the monster. Not today, buddy; we are getting to the 600-word minimum. Writing about writer’s block with writer’s block. I can hear its roaring laughter; you think you got this. The monster of self-doubt enters the room dressed in self-pity and anxiety. Sweat beads began to form on her forehead. The pressure was mounting. Tag-teaming Isabel, the fog monster and the self-doubt monster thought they had the upper hand. But she still had a few tricks up her sleeve. Armed with humor and plain audacity, she kicked the fog monster in the groin, wherever that was, and it landed a direct hit. It collapsed and groaned on the ground. Too many g words, so what she told self-doubt, shutting it up.
The morning became electric; the sun peeked out in sunrise colors, and the birds began to sing their morning songs. I wonder what they are saying. She mused. I will take a walk today to clear my mind. Taz joins her for a morning cuddle. The to-do list crept in with a sneak attack. Arghh! A distraction at the wrong time. I am supposed to be writing, not planning my grocery list; I must add coffee creamer to the list.
Perhaps a new paragraph: imagine myself inside a writer’s block. The walls are slick and tall; green 70s shaggy carpeting covers the floor, and lava lamps distract me. The zombies are playing in my head, and the easy chair is calling my name. Not today!
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