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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.”
“Ugh.”
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?”
“Huh?”
“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.”
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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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