Why I can’t Write

Writer’s block. I hate you. Why do you exist?

This is a question I ask both myself and/or the writer’s block every day.

I wonder if writer’s block is a disease that infects the body or if it’s just me blocking myself?

I wish writer’s block was an infection. If it was I’d go to the nearest on-call and get a script to fix it. I’d adapt my lifestyle to fix my writer’s block if my doctor told me how. I’d follow up with my doctor frequently, especially if I felt a case of blockage of the write coming on. I’d preemptively treat y block in order to write if it meant I’d suffer less recurrences. I’d do anything. Anything at all, dammit.

If writer’s block were merely an infection with no cure, I’d research how to cure it and solve all cases of writer’s block world wide. I’d be a literary hero- the Mother Teresa of writer’s block. I’d single-handedly release the furrowed brows of all the afflicted writer’s who suffer from block, and then I would win a nobel prize for my heroic research efforts in the field of infectious writer’s blockage.

Alas. My writer’s block is of my own doing, and I must be my own cure.

How fucking obnoxious. And tedious.

Screw it. Right? Screw writer’s block hard. Punch it in the face and beat the shit out of it. Deny its existence. Do a tribal dance around it and light an effigy in its honor. Lie to yourself and write something horrific. Write anything. Even just the same word again and again and again. Write a post on facebook and then delete it. Open a Twitter account and deactivate it. Open an instagram and write witty captions and then privatize it prior to deleting it. Delete yourself in an effort to delete your writer’s block, god dammit, you suck so much. You and your writer’s block and your existential crises that leaves you in a cold sour sweat. Stuffed to the brim with thoughts, and feelings, and wonderful little quibbles that you know could move a mountain if read by someone else that does not know you. Call yourself something else and forget you ever wrote. You were never a writer in the first place. You hate the literary scene. Hell, you hate reading in general, because it infuriates you that so many have already written so many words that are not yours, yet resonate within you, so there mustn’t be anything else to write about anymore, anyways…right? Never read again, and your writer’s block will not remind you of its presence.

Read everything and let it inspire you. Become infuriated after reading yourself to death and consider going to get your MBA.

Black out. Forget it ever happened. Don’t even tell anyone you wrote because when they ask you what you write you will have to answer them and the writer’s block will rear its faithful head. Reverse psychology your writer’s block and call it out when someone asks you what you write. Laugh and make fun of your writer’s block and commiserate in solidarity with other writer’s who suffer from the plague of the block.

Blame writer’s block on blogs. And social media. And your parents. And your shitty sister. And your x boyfriend. And the one before him. And definitely blame it on your future employer and their future judgement of you because they will find what you once wrote online when you were drunk and 23 and not hire you in the last round of 7 interviews.

In fact, just generally blame your writer’s block on modern society as a whole. Blame your block on today’s overly interactive, onlined, wifi’d, tapped in, zoned out, capital driven, patriarchally dominated, socially “collaborative” society and their inexperienced, over-privileged, uber-apping tendencies, call it a day, and stop writing this very entry RIGHT NOW. DO YOU HEAR ME? THIS IS YOUR WRITER’S BLOCK TYPING AND I’M TELLING YOU TO STOP WRITING RIGHT…NOW OR ELSE…OR ELSE…..OR ELSE….I WILL…..OR ELS…..I WIL…L…..L…L…L

…..Ok, now, just breathe….

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