Knocked off the Block

Two impending deadlines. I’ve got nothing. If you don’t count an incriminating blank screen, a mocking cursor, and the looming doom that the sand in my hourglass is a granule away from Alarm-ageddon. My emotional response to writing paralysis. Although, mine’s more of a blockage. A constipation of words that, no matter the amount of straining, refuse to come out. 

I’m left with two choices. Go back to bed or blame someone. Or something. I’m all about equal opportunity blaming. How about my Covid diagnosis last month, maybe I have brain fog? Or maybe it’s my husband who incessantly clanged a knife inside a barren peanut-butter jar while I yelled out, “IT’S EMPTY!” Or maybe it’s politics? Who doesn’t feel miasmic malaise from all the terrible news? Surely, that’s got to be it. 

At a loss, I invoke the ancient goddess of writing, Seshat. First though, I begin with offerings of commiseration. Who wants a name that ends with the past tense of expelling feces? That’s a bum rap. Thoth, her male counterpart, has a better name. He also has the head of a baboon. Another lesson in “we can’t have everything.”

I barely hear Seshat’s whispered counsel, “The universe has had enough of your words, thank you very much, don’t call us, we’ll call you.” That can’t be right! It’s not very goddess-like. But then, I worry, what if it’s true?

As I stare over the cliff of devastation down into the valley of despair where former wordsmiths slog around with dead laptops saying to no-one interested, “I used to write,” I think how easy I had it in the past.

Oh, how far away yesterday seems. Back then, words came easy. I’m not saying the results were Didion, only that the tap of inspiration was a spigot wide open. Words never took a vacation, decided to retire or left me for some younger writer. No. Even when I had nothing to say, my fingers on the keyboard always did. 

From there, I’d have pages to edit - for that’s the real work of writing. Everyone says they want to be a writer, but nobody says, “My dream is to write a bunch of gobbledegook and then spend interminable hours encouraging hemorrhoids and headaches by editing a handful of measly pages I suffered over, to then ask, ‘Who wrote this crap?’ While the rest of life goes to hell, because who has the time to pay bills, wash dishes or change underwear when the Grim Reaper of Deadlines wields a scythe with an embedded stamp that will slash and stomp my freshly edited piece in blood-red ink: ‘Rejection!’” Anyhoo. That’s my writer’s life.  And, I love it.

Maybe I should blame my laptop? Not that I don’t appreciate it. Everyone knows the delete key is more enjoyable than an eraser, especially when entire paragraphs beg to die. Stephen King advises us to “kill our darlings.” He has no idea the ruthlessness that occurs on my desk. I murder pages of pablum so lackluster I consider quitting to become a plumber. It’d be similar to writing as there’d still be crappy days, paper jams and laying lines. Plus, a big upside, finally, rationale for my plumber’s crack. Perhaps I’d name my business Vowel Movement and call myself a “Water Distribution Operator?” Might as well employ creativity somewhere. 

It’s my fault I dally on my computer. One minute I’m deep in prose, pausing merely to search online for a synonym of “cheese,” and before I know it, I’m reading a list of every cheese in the world followed by a viral video of a cheese eating contest, to then find myself watching a clip about the art of pastry-making, which weirdly causes me to bra shop.  

I know, I shouldn’t click any links. What do they say? The road to hell is paved with good - oh, sorry, I was distracted by this monkey in overalls answering a phone. It’s unbelievable! I mean, when’s the last time you saw an old rotary-dial telephone?

I checked back in with Seshat about this plumber business, and whether I should apprentice for The Plumb Eyed Pipers or The Crapper Dappers? After she stops hysterically laughing at me (and reminding me of my fear of drain snakes), she says I misheard.

Turns out she was telling me that the universe has had enough blame, thank you very much, don’t blame us, we don’t blame you. Wow. That’s mighty gracious of our universe - especially to a planet of people who created global warming, “The Bachelor,” and “Flamin’ Hot Doritos.”

Not one to slough off otherworldly advice, I consider her message. What if blame is useless? It’d certainly curtail arguments, like the ones inside my head. I’m a blame-machine when it comes to self-judgment. Sure, first, I look outward for who’s at fault, but that’s a knee-jerk reaction after growing up with a dad who accused me of stealing his toupee. As if a ten-year-old wanted a wig that resembled a dead hamster. 

Maybe Seshat is advising me to cool my jets. After all, she’s also a goddess of wisdom who wears leopard print! How can I not pay attention to her?

Seshat’s also known for placing ethereal copies of authors’ work in “the library of the gods.” Thus, making “mortal writing” immortal. She’s playing the long game; maybe signaling that writer’s block is no big deal? That without blame, there’s simply returning to work when you’re ready.

I feel called to don my leopard pants for a date with my laptop. But first, for her sagacity and loving the written word as much as I do, I’ll give offerings of gratitude. I wonder if she likes Flamin’ Hot Doritos?