Writer’s Blockade

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I’m kind of hesitant to call what I’m dealing with “writer’s block” because that kind of implies that it’s an actual thing. Like there’s some kind of creativity U-bend somewhere in my brain that’s backed up with dick jokes. It also implies that the solution to said blockage requires something other than initiating ass/chair contact and just writing some shit. Pop culture is full of stories about writers whose creative output is contingent on them traveling to Silent Hill and punching the ghost of their dead wife or banging some manic pixie dream girl or whatever. That’s never really it. Writer’s block is an inability to turn off your own critical voice. It’s being unwilling to dig up the creative minerals from which precious story gems are extracted. That metaphor sucks. here’s a better one. Creatively, writing fiction is like shitting in a bucket and stirring it until it turns to chocolate sauce. If that isn’t happening then you either need to shit more or stir harder.

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