The Word Waltz (Friday Evening Writer's Block)

[Lucy!]

I pulled my hair back tightly with a beat up scrunchie that lost its staying power when I wound it around my Shakespeare anthology the week before. My hair always bothers me when I write, and I hadn't written anything non-scholastic in so long that anything that could potentially deter me from producing some written piece had to be done away with.

I sat looking at the Windows XP default screensaver that pops up every few seconds in a different corner of the screen, something that drives me crazy but I never get around to changing.

There were a few loose words dancing around my head like bad tango instructors, nothing to my liking. I tried thinking about an event or situation that was worth writing about. Nothing. The light buzzing from the computer which is almost imperceptible when one is at work now seemed too loud to bear. Blankness.

I had a suspicion the screensaver was laughing at me, hadn't it seen me do this for hours for the past few months without a single word etched into the system?

I started biting my fingernails, a bad habit I took up again when writer's block hit me. The hardness of them prevented me getting a good bite, so I stopped to look at them. I had completely forgotten that I had adorned them with pink, black and green polka dots. I studied my fingernails carefully, intent on counting every single mini dot I painted on each nail. My long hair found its way out of the scrunchie, which tore me away from my intricate study of my amazing nails. With this turn of events, I began studying the overwhelmingly interesting world of split ends, which is quite the time consuming discipline...

This was ridiculous.

Why couldn't I just concentrate on writing? Why was it so easy to let the mind wander? How did I become so frustrated and annoyingly devoid of literary abilities? How could it be that something that I adore and love become the equivalent of peeling my skin off with a rusty knife?

To motivate myself, I moved the mouse around to take the computer off idle mode. The disgustingly white and empty face of the Microsoft word document I was supposed to be writing in shot up before me mockingly. This was worse than looking at the annoying screensaver and even more cruel to face. The familiar feeling of inadequacy and frustration with my lack of writing began to chew into me, much like it had been for the past year.

I sat looking at the revoltingly empty screen, boring words still floating somewhere in my mind, struggling to jot something down. The cheap words, tired of trying to inspire me, shed their skin and morphed into tiny dancers, merrily waltzing around the open spaces of my mind, broad and contentedly smiling their way to a sweet, soft melody.

Dooobee dooobee dooo...

Music! That's what was missing! I needed music. Of course. How could I forget something so elemental!?

I opened up the computer media player and searched for my Frank Sinatra files, it seemed like he was the one to listen to for some inspiration. Send in the Clowns. Perfect. Tears began to fall on the keyboard where my limp hands were resting. What a song, always sneaks into me and gives me that emotional punch...

I listened to the song again. The second time, I was not afraid to weep openly, painful memories creeping into me and joining the dancers with some mournful step I wish I could learn. I began to sniffle the runny fluid that was sliding down my nasal passage. No tissues around, I went to the bathroom to blow my nose.

Then it hits me!

If I play a little bit of online scrabble, surely I can get into writing something down, after all, it is a game of words. If I surround myself with words, it is only natural that I start writing. How obvious!

The hours flew by and not one word in my document. My scrabble score, however, was at its highest and my ability to arrange words was uncanny, my pace is so quick, I don't have time to think about writing. After all, I need a break from all that hard work trying to write, its only natural that I need a distraction.

When I awoke in the morning, my face is uncomfortably smashed against the wooden computer desk in front of me. The computer is in sleep mode, poor machine overworked from hours of waiting for me to produce something fruitful. I look at my watch. Time to get ready for a Saturday full of homework and studying.

Writing papers and doing homework surely will get my creativity going. When my brain realizes it can't be free when I write my essays, it will definitely burst with ideas.

There's no doubt about it.

LT
11-11-05

[Doreen Peri]

hey Lucy!

I've been going to games.com every night for the past 3 weeks playing scrabble.

meet me there one night... let's play a game, ok?

[Lucy!]

!
Sounds like a date!

[tinkerjack]

The disgustingly white and empty face of the Microsoft word document I was supposed to be writing in shot up before me mockingly. This was worse than looking at the annoying screensaver and even more cruel to face. The familiar feeling of inadequacy and frustration with my lack of writing began to chew into me, much like it had been for the past year.

I am doing in this word too. I suppose the way I get around writers block is that I open a text box on S8 and let my fingers tap to whatever durmmer is playing that odd beat that I march to. I feel as if I am working high rise concstruction without a safety net. An extistential strip tease, like skinning myself with a rusty knife too. No idea what I reveal about myself. I never knew that AG was a confessional writer to0. The only problem is when I start righting about all this mundane boring details of my life. So much vanity, as if I anyone would be in some one so pre-modern such as old tinker. This ain’t nothing but spontaneous typing, if I ever develop some respect for this shit I scribble. BTW Bill gates put a squiggle under ‘more cruel’ suggest you change it to “more crueler”

Loved this piece Lucy. How do I know, I had to reply
Wrote this to the hum of an air conditioner and a computer with an open case a whirring fan. That’s my excuse.

But speaking of music, this one been playing on my metaphorical mental radio the past couple days.
Nice work

I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king
I've been up and down and over and out and I know one thing
Each time I find myself flat on my face
I pick myself up and get back in the race

That's life (that's life), I tell you I can't deny it
I thought of quitting, baby, but my heart just ain't gonna buy it
And if I didn't think it was worth one single try
I'd jump right on a big bird and then I'd fly