Writer’s block is a bitch. Plain and simple. It’s like constipation of the creative. You know you have to get something out at some point but it’s just not happening. You sit on the thought toilet for 15 minutes until you submit to defeat of the evermore stubborn warden of thought. It’s as if all the rest of the world is moving and doing oh-so-creative things as you sit and watch (toilet) paper in hand. (Shall I cease the disturbing analogy? A: YES) Even actuaries seem to have an element of profound creativity. The people who reject you on a daily basis – the interactions that drive your creativity – manage to be brilliant artists. And you are a lump on a log.
So to combat writer’s block or any other creative block, I engage in retail therapy. It really doesn’t have to be anything in particular that I buy. It could be jewelry or a pea-green swivel chair on sale at 40% off with a great red throw pillow. Of course, I never thought I would get my jollies buying home furnishings. I had a torn horse poster in my room in college for 2 years and it seemed like the perfect room accent. Who knew that the girl who used to pretend she was superwoman, jumping from carpet roll to giant carpet roll in a warehouse that smelled of textiles, boredom and distain would be finding herself flying in the same type of facility 20 years later? But instead of physically jumping from carpet roll to carpet roll, I soar just thinking about how a cheap olive rug would make a room slightly less rental apartment-ish. Dear god is this what an adult life has surmounted to? Nah, just a life where when you can’t write.
I suppose this means when I become a fellow imperialist-land-acquisition American, I will never write again. Although I think I may hold off on buying a place because I can handle the popular post-marital question, “so when are you going to buy a place?” better than the more popular question, “so when are you going to buy a kid?”
The Bridge says, “When I buy a house.”
Inquisitor says, “When are you going to buy a house?”
The Bridge replies, “When I stop writing.”
Inquisitor asks, “When are you going to stop writing?”
The Bridge retorts, “When I buy a house.”
I’m not even sure why I’m making such a direct relationship between owning a home and terminating the desire to write. It makes no sense really.
Realtor says, “Sign here, Ms. The Bridge”
The Bridge huffs, “You can just keep that pen. I’ll never need it again.”
Realtor asks, “I’m sorry?”
The Bridge exclaims, “You should be!”
Realtor starts to cry and says to self, “I should have never left my wife.”
But then again, I’m unable to be creative right now. I blame having recently seen the play, The Last Unicorn. A production that should have remained in the form of a 1980s cartoon, made me realize that others just like me, are having major blockage as well.
If I see The Last Unicorn cast at a Century 21, I’ll look their way with a nod, and say, “I gotchu.”
Lesson Learned: It’s important to keep being creative, even if what you’re making is only a load of crap.
