When he couldn’t find the words anywhere in the whole of Manhattan, Natalie imposed a new “shock therapy” on Dan to knock him out of his writing funk. What did this “shock therapy” entail? Two glasses of water to the face, an air horn, followed by another glass of water to the face. Dan didn’t have the hiccups, but I don’t think that mattered to the quirky Natalie. If someone would come and splash some water in my face, preferably Josh Charles simply to pass along this strange cure for writer’s block, I would greatly appreciate it.
Urban Dictionary defines writer’s block as “A point in writing where the writer runs head first into a brick wall in their writing process. Which may result in a writer bashing their head repeatedly into their keyboard/laptop/notebook/etc. until words or blood is freely flowing. Also might be because the characters are fed up with all the crap the author puts them through and go on strike”. I won’t say that there’s blood on my keyboard, but I will say that my fingers are shaking because I’m putting them too close to the keys. They are apprehensive about sitting there, simply because they know that if they don’t get their act together and start typing up a storm that I’m going to start cracking knuckles until they cooperate.
Okay, that’s… a lie, but you get the idea.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Sitting here typing a blog entry, one that seems to be well thought out and flows somewhat, I’m not in the midst of a block. But it’s true, I am. Because when I sit down with my story, all I hear are fucking crickets. No pen to paper, no words on the document. Nothing. Just me, staring off into space. I tried to go somewhere new yesterday, to see if I could jostle myself out of it, but all I did was end up at the Starbucks on Michigan Ave. with two cups of coffee and a vanilla latte; a caffeine-fueled sugar rush that resulted in a crash where they’re still trying to locate the black box.
Maybe, and this is just a theory, it’s my own lazy ass that’s trying to fight me on this. I’m currently sitting in bed with my laptop resting on my knees. The indoor thermometer says that it’s 64.0°, but the outdoor one says that it’s 52°. That’s just cold enough to keep my ass under these blankets until I have to go to work. Maybe, if I want to get myself out of this funk, I should push back the blankets and go somewhere. I believe the sun is out, perhaps I can go outside for a while.