It’s not called writer’s block.
It’s called Writer’s Love or Writer’s Tension or Writer’s Pinch, as in a pinched nerve or some such, when I can’t write. I’m not blocked; I know what I want to write, I know the subject and the method and the mood. I’m not blocked. I’m just damned picky. And, in those moments, my mind just won’t move, and neither will my fingers (to type or pick up a pen), and everything, everything is wrong, wrong, wrong.
Don’t ask me to write, in such times, for I might just write something awful and mundane just to spite you, and you’ll never know it was spiteful because you’ll just love the hell out of it. I can’t do it wrong, except that it’s all wrong, all heartless, all for the indulgence of your petty little soul, for the indulgence of your lack of intelligence and lack of judgement of knowing that I’m spinelessly spiting you and your tapered values. And spiting myself, too, for ever having allowed myself to be in a state such as this one, where someone else can demand, can ask me to write, and I write, like Ayn Rand’s antihero creating cupie dolls while he’s capable of sculpting a majestic Dominique to stand in the midst of Roark’s grandiose lobby.
That’s why I quit anything: I’d rather do nothing at all, I’d rather sit and wait it out than sell out to you or to anyone.
Because I’ve sold out too often and have made the most of it, have made my pennies on those damned cupie dolls with their stupid curl in the center of their dumb, cheeky foreheads.
Don’t ask me to write. Just be grateful when I do.
Be grateful when anyone of any capacity flickers with their grace and grandiosity within your vicinity.
Those are the true angels, the truly great, the genii.
Be grateful, and give them their due, even if it takes all your lives just to do it.
Those debts are the ones that matter, that come first.
I should know. I’m still working to pay off mine. And I’ll find a way to do it, too. If it takes all my life.
Oceans of Mine 