To the bane of my Odyssey creator existence,

Dear infuriation incarnate,

Words could not begin to describe the frustration I am experiencing as I sit at my laptop, desperately clawing at elusive phrases to an article I’ve written about thirteen times now.

No, not about. Actually. Actually thirteen times.

Thirteen trains of thought have nearly pulled into their stations before stalling just short, subsequently needing to be towed away and once again leaving me empty handed. I’ve typed out countless titles, wrestled with endless topics, and nearly hurled my computer into the trash or the face of a harmless person who asks me how it’s going. I cannot, for the life of me, scamper over the wall you’ve erected in front of my deadline, mouth upturned in a taunting smirk as I kick at the bottom and screech an empty cry of defeat.

GAH.

I can’t even explain the pain you’ve put me through. You have robbed me of the words with which to do so. I’m just sitting here, hands clattering aimlessly, pressing each key a little harder than I should out of sheer anguish. I’m trying to sort through what I’m saying about you, trying to make sure my words aren’t just more empty filler as I dance around yet another topic. Is even this filler? Probably.

I feel as though the best way to describe you would be to liken you to the stocks, my head and hands locked up inescapably in an iron grip. I can flail around all I like, but the grip holds, the words fail, and no difference is made. You mock me as I fight, as I grow weary, as I exhaust countless minutes just...trying. And failing.

I wish there was a way of study that would teach me how to better fend you off. Or some technique I could employ to rid myself of you forever.

And yet.

Every time I am afflicted with you, I am reminded of the value that words possess. Every time I am faced with you, I am reminded of the joy that comes from breaking from your grasp and finding content about which I am passionate, enthused, excited. I cannot help but recognize how often I take for granted the words I have and can use, and I cannot help but realize that taking them for granted makes them mean less. To write meaning both into my work and behind it, I have to see how truly blessed that I am to write what I have, what I am, and what I will.

You help me to see all of that. By stripping me of the ability to write, you draw me out of my selfish mind and show me what an honor it is to be able to write anything at all, regardless of what it is. You teach me that lesson, and for that, I am forever grateful.

Additionally, if all else fails, if everything else falls short, if I run out of rhyme and reason, explanation and excuse, at least you’ve provided me with a topic for the week.

Much love,

A girl smitten with writing