What do you call it when you write about having writer’s block? No, that’s not a joke. Comedy is never a laughing matter. Only few people know how bad it can get. Lives become at risk. I can’t write, so I roam the streets at night. Wandering around side streets and alleys, looking for that yellow brick. Looking for the start of the trail that will lead me onto a story. But that’s all it is, false hope. There are five doors to choose from, all locked, and you need to find your way through. Last night, I did just that. I found my yellow brick, but she was holding a brick of gold. I tend to shy away from reading when I can’t write. My words become the author’s, I’m just transcribing their text. But, it got worse than that. I started to read her blog, and I just couldn’t stop. I was enthralled, she had me right where she wanted me. I felt like I was scribbling at the kiddie table, while she was at the head of the big boys’ table. She knocked the wind out of me. A right hook that came from left field. It shattered my heart. I got this far, but reality pointed to the map and showed me that I had gotten nowhere.
I wonder if people read my work and feel the same way I do about hers. I’ll never know. I do know that I’m horrible at expressing how I feel about most things, this being one of them. Talented is too mediocre a word. A sole word is not enough, either. Maybe if I blow my brains over this paper, she’d get the picture. She’d see how her words gave me a push. She gave me hope, and “Along with a side of Hope came a big ol’ helping of Nasty.”