Dear Writer’s Block,
Social conventions dictate a polite opening sentence. I’d ask how you are but I don’t care. You are still here, have been for quite a long time in fact, so I know how you are. Persistent, annoying, ever-present, relentless.
It’s time we parted ways. I need the sense of accomplishment that comes with finishing a story, a chapter or even a well-written paragraph. I need to lose myself in a fictional creation, another life that isn’t mine. I need the escape.
You see the sameness of life is getting to me and you are to blame. I miss those productive two hours surrounded by books, sitting at my old secretary desk. The one I spent a summer refinishing in my teens. A desk that connects me to my youth and more stories.
To be fair, writer’s block, you aren’t completely to blame. My insecurities are part of the problem. In capital letters they scream, “YOU SUCK! YOU’RE NOT A REAL WRITER!” But I write, therefore I am. So there. I may not have the ten-thousand hours or whatever is needed to perfect a skill, however I am getting there.
Let me throw myself into a good story. Let me create. Let me cry and giggle as I write. Don’t block me with your presence. Scram, get lost, let me be.
I am a storyteller. I come from storytellers. It’s in my genes. It’s who I am.
I’d ask you to go bug someone else but I don’t wish you on anyone. Disappear, vanish. Don’t take the high road, just get lost!
Wait on second thought, I know where you can go. There’s a guy named Donald down in the U.S. that I’d like you to visit.
I’m not closing with a friendly sign off, simply,
From
Marian
