As much as I’d love to pretend that I’m an awesome writer who never has an issue tossing together perfectly inspired thoughts, sentence structures of immaculate design that call forth the most pristine emotions in the reader, there are occasions when my creative engine just doesn’t want to turn over. All artists have these moments–the will to create is there, the words or pigments or whatever are at hand, but nothing seems to go down right. It’s a moment of pure, unadulterated “Fuck This”–a frustration that likes to take up residence right between my shoulder blades and tempt my limbs to twitch in a strange, spastic dance.
This is a space of complete, negative creation. I think it’s important to acknowledge it, to understand that even I must have an off day. For the past hour, I have sat here–the blinking cursor taunting me, all the glorious creations of my half-conscious brain evaporated like beings of mist. I hate this space, and the more I struggle against it, the more mired in unproductive frustration I become. So I’m going to take my own advice. Having paid public credence to writer’s block, I’m going to go kiss a beautiful woman, make lunch plans, and perhaps take a drive into the country. This Monday will just have to get along without me.