When Writer’s Block arrives, she’s under the impression she’s clever or something. She forgets who I am. Lives in perpetual denial or something. She thinks every writer will fall for her, and although many do, I am not many. She thinks she’s this genius that’s figured everyone out. It’s ridiculous.
If only she’d understand that if she arrives and obstructs my view of creativity I’ll just write about her as if she was my muse. I’ll write how she thinks she’s fucking smart while accomplishing nothing. Blocking the door to creativity.
There’s a backdoor.
I’m still writing. Not really sure what delusions have to be in place to believe something would change this. There is no purpose. She might as well be nameless to me. Ineffective enough to be titled The Reason I Write. I mean, every time she rolls by I write about her and I write more than I’d even expect too. Writer’s Block inspires me. I love her.
She’s a failure, but I love her and welcome her presence. I know I’ll get writing done when she’s around.
There is a feeling of pity because the turnout is always the same. It forces me to question whether her head is in the right place or if she’s lost some screws in her ventures torturing writers.
Regardless of emotional matters, it’s an opportunity which should not go wasted. And when she does stop by even if it’s with bad intention, let her do what she wants to do and I’ll do what I have to to do. Even if it means using her in order to do it. Even if it means turning her entire philosophy on her head as to continue reinforcing my own.
There were plans to write before she stopped by and I refuse to change my plans to accommodate anyone other than myself. I wish I could get her to understand, but I don’t know how.
I just watch her repeat this cycle of attempts once in a while. She tries and tries.
Maybe it’s me who’s too clever?