Writer's Block

Nearly every day, I try to conjure up some half-funny idea and flesh it out into something worthy of being posted on this blog. Sometimes I have some fun with Photoshop, sometimes I write a little story, and other times I do something a little different. Since hardly anyone reads this stuff, I shouldn’t really care whether or not it’s any good, and I certainly shouldn’t spend so much energy trying to post fresh content on a daily basis.

But I do.

So because of this, there is a new day in my life that I dread: the days I have writer’s block. Writer’s block, for those who’ve never experienced it, is like insomnia. Generally, around the time that I would begin writing, I find I can’t. “No problem,” I think, “I’ll distract myself and come back to it later. I’m sure I’ll think of something.” Except hours pass and nothing comes.

That’s when I can feel desperation creep in, riding on the backs of ideas like “I’ll write the journal of an alcoholic witness protection program job assigner who keeps sending people to work as dangerous animal trainers” or “what happens when someone asks Dane Cook to be funny?” The ideas pass by like counted sheep, each one getting a little weirder and a little more impossible to write about.

Eventually, I give up. Perhaps I’ll manage to produce something, but it’s not of a quality I am satisfied with. For instance this piece, which I have now written and you have now read. Really, there is no reason for me to place this little piece of personal information on the internet, and there is no reason for you to read it. But that has happened. And so it goes.

To be honest, I started writing this little bit of nothingness to see if it would invoke a plausible idea for a post. Instead, it has led me to the thought of “how could I explain this phenomenon of ‘blogging writer’s block’ to a group of Guinean Highland tribesmen?” The answer is: I could not. They would simply shoot me with an arrow or hack me to death with crude machetes. At least that’s one possibility. Another possibility is that they would be incredibly friendly to me, and bring me to a lavish feast where a ceremonial pig was slaughtered and eaten. The pig would be delicious, and after dinner, they would carry me around in a throne, like the Ewoks did with C3PO in Return of the Jedi.

In the morning, horns would sound, letting us know that a British journalist was approaching, because British journalists are always snooping around the Highlands of New Guinea. Maybe the journalist could give me an idea to write about. But it would probably be about travel, and travel blogs really suck.