Portrait of a Writer’s Block

It is not without trepidition that I start this post. Not because I’m concerned that I’ll reveal some deep dark secret, one that will shock the world and cause my friends to abandon me in droves. Nor am I concerned that I’ll dissolve in a misty, murky jumble of emotionally driven platitudes and cliches, vomiting out angst onto the screen for everyone to see.

Both would actually be preferable to the reality: which is that I am devoid of idea, absent of thought and bereft of creative jots.

At the most, my brain holds an iota (but no more) of concept, lurking somewhere in the back; a thing, frail Phantom, waiting in the wings to deliver The Idea. I can hear him, just a murmur, a whisper of notion.

But so far, he’s not saying anything that I can hear.

So I keep writing, in the hopes that he’ll speak up before I hit the end. But it’s becoming more and more unlikely that he’ll make an appearance. Deus ex machinas are so rare in real life. No shadowy figures standing in doorways who step into the light to reveal it’s the hero that everyone thought was dead. No cavalry, who conveniently remained hidden behind a hill until they were most needed, and then burst onto the scene to the joy of the buxom woman and the desperate gunslinger, their backs to canyon wall while fearsome injuns prepare to pepper them with arrows.

I’m getting closer to the end now and still nothing. I fear my Phantom idea has exited, in hopes of finding greener passages in which to burgeon. Which leaves me to dig deeper, trying to find the words to end this entry, releasing both you AND me from this shapeless purgatory.

In cases such as these, it’s always best to just go with the cliche. That’s why they exist after all, to provide refuge for those who cannot find the words to describe something.

So let’s cap this off with two little words and you can be on your way. Leaving me here, still looking, still hoping, that I’ll come up with something to write about.

THE END

Dylan Charles