Deborah Anderson

In 2000, Deborah Anderson left the medical field to care for her elderly mother. Soon after, she began writing. She has written for Focus on the Family, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and numerous other publications. She is a member of TWV, ACFW, CWG, and FCW. Married 30 years, Deborah and her husband enjoy country living in the Midwest. She also spends her time rescuing cats, reading novels, and taking nature walks. Deborah recently completed her first novel. You can contact Deborah at:

Diary of A Crazy Writer

Writer’s Block, Brain Freeze, and Fiji

I tapped my fingers on my laptop table, unable to think of a single word to write. I’ve never had trouble talking, so I couldn’t figure out why I would suffer from writer’s block, especially with a deadline looming six hours away.

Shifting my attention, I eyed my husband’s empty office chair. Maybe he could help me. He always has something to say.

I pushed my laptop to the side, stood from my rocker, and strolled into the bedroom. “Honey?”

A loud snore pierced the air.

“Can you hear me?”

Another snore. Apparently not.

Oh well. The poor man had been slaving away in the heat. He deserved a nap.

I went downstairs and wandered around the house, waiting for inspiration to strike me.

A few minutes later, still uninspired, I entered the sunroom. Three baby raccoons peeked from the other side of the window at me. I couldn’t help but smile at their masked faces. “Hi, babies. Are you hungry?”

I grabbed some cheap dog food, cranked open the window, and threw it outside. The furry critters scrambled for the morsels rolling across the ground. I envisioned their little minds working overtime as they chomped on each bite.

My brain, however, remained blank.

I looked at the clock: 6:30. Yes, it was definitely time for hubby to get up.

Thumping back up the steps, I called, “Honey . . .”

More snoring echoed from the bedroom.

I reached out and shook my beloved’s leg. “It’s time to wake up.”


At least I got a response.

I hurried back into the office and sat down with my laptop. Good, now I’ll get some ideas.

He entered the room soon after. “Man, was I sleeping hard.”

“I know. I called you several times, and you still didn’t hear me.” I grinned. “Are you awake now?”

He scratched his head. “Yes.”

Relief washed over me. I’ve learned not to approach him when he’s in a comatose state. “Good. I need your help. I can’t think of anything to write.”

My sweetheart plopped down in his chair, pulled up a game on his computer, and perched his fingers over the keyboard. Click, click, click.

This is not what I had in mind.

“Honey? Did you hear me?”

“I heard you. I’m thinking.”

How could the man think when he was playing a game?

“You don’t have any ideas at all?”

“I just told you, Deb. I’m thinking.” Click. Click. Click. “Hey, why not write about creative license?”


“You know, whatever they call it in the movies.”

“I’m writing an article, not a movie.”

“I know, but you could write about how others shouldn’t mess with a writer’s creativity.”

“That’s the problem. I have no creativity.” I waved my hand. “Besides, I think I’ve already done that, only I used the word rules instead of the creative license thing.”

“Oh.” Click. Click. Click.

I moaned as though I were suffering pain from a debilitating disease. “I’m telling you, this is the worst it’s ever been.”

He chuckled.

I wanted to take a nap.

He looked at me, his blue eyes bright, and smiled. “Well, that’s what makes it a big challenge.”

I furrowed my brow. Gee, thanks, Mr. Happy. I feel so much better now.

Grabbing the remote, I turned on the TV. Ashley, the woman on The Bachelorette, flashed across the screen. “I think Fiji is the perfect place to write the last chapter of my love story,” she said.

Irritation trickled down my spine. Excuse me, Ashley. I could write more than a chapter if I were in Fiji.

I turned off the TV and tossed the remote onto the table. If I watched any further, I’d never get anything written. I didn’t have time to go to Fiji. I did have time to eat, though.

“Want some ice cream?” I said to my beloved.

“No thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

I couldn’t even get the man to procrastinate with me.

Minutes later, I returned with a big bowl of chocolate ice cream. I savored a heaping spoonful, until a sharp pain stabbed my forehead. Great. Now I had brain freeze to go along with my writer’s block. Perhaps I should return to Fiji.

I turned on the TV again. Ashley roamed the beach, and I ate my ice cream. Hello? What was wrong with this picture?

Oh wait. I remember now. Ashley was in Fiji, talking about writing a chapter, while I sat in my rocker, stuffing my face with a dairy product.

I eyed the clock again. Tick, tick, tick.

And that’s when it hit me. Maybe I should write about pushing through my writer’s block. I’ve read many articles about how to overcome the dreaded monster, but I’ve not read too many where the writer actually wrote his/her way out of one.

My brother’s words from years ago floated across my mind. “You couldn’t punch your way out of a wet paper sack, baby sister.”

Oh yeah? Watch me.

I turned off the TV, set down my bowl, and wrote. And it all happened because I had writer’s block, brain freeze, and saw that clip about Fiji. Who would have thought?

Now that I think about it, maybe I should go back to the ocean in North Carolina. It might not be Fiji, but who knows what could happen there? I might finish off a whole series of books sitting on the beach again.

My mentors, and teachers, would be proud. So would my brother.

Who says I can’t punch my way out of a wet paper sack, big brother?


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