Dear Writer’s Block,
Hello, how have you been? By that I mean you’re a jerk and I believe I’d like to kick you in the blocky ding ding.
I think it’s time you and I had a chat. After more than a few years of careful deliberation, I’m going to have to let you go. Unfortunately, your days of planting the closing song from “Dirty Dancing” or accidentally doing four crossword puzzles instead of mowing the lawn are officially over.
Ah yes, Mr. Blockhead. Speaking of blockheads … was Charlie Brown ever funny? I understand that Charles Schultz is a cartoon culture icon, but I never really thought “Peanuts” was entertaining. Reading about precocious balding kids with misshapen heads really didn’t do much for me in terms of animated amusement.
Anyway, we met somewhere when I was quite young and any type of chore I was responsible for came due. This would usually coincide with a cache of marbles being discovered or perhaps a comic book I thought had long since disappeared would miraculously reappear.
Flash forward to me sitting in front of a computer screen with 19 tabs open on my Internet browser. I think it’s a delirious mix of ADD, sloth and procrastination. Speaking of Sloth … that character scared the hell out of me in “Goonies.” And Chunk’s family just takes in this rampaging monster straight out of a Troma nightmare? I don’t think so. I think a fat kid with delusions is enough parenting responsibility.
Back to browsing. Now Google is by far the most dangerous addictive drug for someone with writer’s block. It starts off as leisurely stroll among websites to either a) get inspiration for a column, or b) do research for an idea I’d like to write about. The truth is it’s actually c) a way for me to play games, buy pointless items online (Pasta Boat anyone?), and catch up on three different websites all the celebrity gossip that’s fit to print.
I have a few suggestions about where you can go when you leave here, Writer’s Block. I think first and foremost, to that woman who writes the “Twilight” crud. Go there. Now. Stop those books at all costs.
Then maybe it might be a good plan to head over to the political spectrum and do your best to cement the idea that no politician should ever write a book. We don’t care. I’m talking to you Alaskan hockey mom. Mr. Writer’s Block, it’s come to my attention that you need help. You’ve become a needling parasitic influence that only exists to exacerbate my inability to stay on task and complete a writing project.
I have a responsibility to my employer, my editor, my … hey look! Gummi bears!
Dear Writer’s Block,