Writer's block is an often mistaken animal; blamed for many passed deadlines, empty pages, and forlorn glances at the blinking line of the cursor. However, writer's block is not always simply the absence of idea. Sometimes writer's block is more complicated than that.
It is my own resilience towards being proactive which ends as my bane. In denying myself the time I should spend in the works of others, pouring over pages of text, absorbing metaphor and simile, soaking in the wonderful art of wordsmithing, I close off the vital source for which I draw my ability to cohesively express myself. In my inactivity my mental muscles atrophy and my vocabulary shrinks, replacing intelligent discourse with primal one-line responses, snarky scripts, and those dreaded body language motions; shrugging and nodding.
And there I am left, with ideas begging to be transfered to language, yet with no means by which to do so. I struggle in the dark fog, groping aimlessly for something, anything, which could possibly express the glimpses of brilliance protruding from my cerebral self. I find myself smothered by the thick stench of my own laziness, choking on the dirt in this grave of self-deprivation.
This infamous writer's block; this is not some scape goat awaiting my abuse. This is simply the object of my own misguidance. The dirty little skeleton now walking in shambles down the hallway, cursing me and threatening to eat my little children, my ideas and inspirations. Should the pen truly be mightier than the sword, then perhaps I wouldn't need that attack bonus, eh? Really, all of the things we consider sharp- our wit, our minds, our pens- these are what we need to exercise daily.
These are what fend off the monsters in the closet.
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