They call it writer’s block.
I call it frustration.
I also call it asshole and fucking bullshit and a whole bunch of other profanities…out loud.
I look at the barren white pages, glaring back at me.
There’s a hint of a smirk hidden between the college ruled lines on the paper.
I’ve been reading a lot of other peoples stuff to try to spark a fire.
All that has done is smear my ideas amongst theirs; like a Monet…except with words and messier, until I think there isn’t an original thought in my head.
“Who gives a shit what you have to say anyway?”
It speaks to me in the taunting, sing-song voice of a school yard bully.
“You call yourself a writer?”
I have no response; no defense.
They are lost somewhere out of my reach.
That’s pretty much it. I don’t even have a lot to say about not having a lot to say.
(Bangs head on desk. Makes obscene gestures.)