Today I’m older and wiser and a bit less peppy. I’m no longer sure that writing five pages about any sort of crack is such a good thing after all. And I’m also no longer critical of people suffering from writer’s block. I now know that writer’s block is real. I’m not too proud to tell you that this very week I’ve suffered from writer’s block, as well as a stuffed-up nose and PMS. And I now understand that it’s not always a question of finding the right subject matter, but about finding a way to write about it.
Writer’s block is sometimes just not being able to find a pen.
Writer’s block is writing the most inspired work of art in your head at eleven thirty at night while lying in bed in the dark, and falling asleep immediately afterwards.
Writer’s block is having an urgent proofreading deadline and twenty-eight essay exams to mark for other people.
Writer’s block is being struck by a fantastic turn of phrase that you absolutely must jot down, before getting struck by the end of a broom that your little boy is wielding while screaming “Dinosaur, you gonna die!”
Writer’s block is sneezing so many times in a row that you can’t sit upright, let alone type.
Writer’s block is trying to write while lightly browning the garlic and cooking the steak medium rare.