A Tale of The Writer Blocked

Maybe I have nothing more to say. There are times I have words bound up inside me that will not come out, no matter how long I stare at this stupid piece of technology in my lap. I guess you could say I am Liturature-ly constipated. (zing, what  play on words, har har)

I have always written and I find great joy and release in doing so. I haven’t struggled so much with it in my life as I am now. Maybe I am bored of writing in the genre I write in, perhaps i just don’t “have it” anymore. It didn’t help that I wrote an article that I was personally pleased with, and the paper was interested in, only to submit it and hear nothing back. Youch. Thanks Editor Tom of the Registered Mail, you are a real stand up asshole. Don’t you know who I am?! I mean come on! I am published! Published! People love my blog and God damn it! I am published in a real city paper! Sigh…..  So yes, I am bruised ego speaking, and a bit crest fallen.

BUT! I have entered a local writing contest at the library here so there’s that, and if i don’t win, I might slit my wrists. Kidding.

Though seriously, I do love writing, it’s the one thing I do somewhat well and that I really do enjoy. It sounds so romantic, a writter, mind blocked, a glass of wine and the tip tapping of the type writer, this is all pictured in grainy black and white too, my hair a mess but sexy at the same time, silk black gown, perhaps a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray and the desk askew with notes, brilliant notes never to see the light of day until I am dead and everyone will know the true genius of Maggie.

…..and back to reality. I am in saggy pj’s with a hole in the knee, sweaty and stinky from a work out I haven’t showered off of me yet, my hair is definitly messy but sex lacking, I quit smoking 5 months ago, there’s no black and white filmage here, every stain shows on my blanket and clothes and  my notes say things like “do the dishes” and “use the avacado in the fridge before it goes bad”. The only thing that is realistic in the previous romantic scene, is the wine. Which I would have, if I had some in the house, which I don’t.  Damn.

So, here I am, writing about the fact that I can’t really write at the moment. And now, I feel another one of my abrupt endings coming on. 

Yep. There it is.


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