Writer’s block: a.k.a. every writer's absolute nightmare (or person who thinks they can string a sentence together.) The process is pitiful, with pitfalls at every turn.

Which way is up? Which direction is down? I have no idea -- I can’t make a decision! (I’m sure the writer is screaming in agony and self imposed despair.) He or she (c’mon are we really that sexist?) wants to dramatically wrench the poison out of Romeo’s hand with the speed and gusto Juliet lacked -- had she not already faked her death. Silly teenagers, so impressionable.

Allow me to disclose the virus because, yes, writer’s block is a virus. No trip to the pediatrician or purchasable over-the-counter drug that your body is probably already immune to can fix you. You’re stuck. Your head will burn -- a mental fire ever so subtly poised as a mild irritant. Soft enough to prod and poke like a kitten's paw and drive one madder than the Mad Hatter. Thoughts will coagulate, much like the coconut oil you hopelessly rub on your skin in effort to stave off the after peeling of a sunburn. But, sorry hun, you should’ve prepared for this.

You’ll realize you haven’t eaten in hours, and your fingers will shrivel and dry up, but you won’t care because “woe is me, I must suffer and come up with an idea before I indulge in nourishment!" Although four and a half minutes later you wolf down a bag of Lay’s potato chips and a granola bar, and then say “screw it” and blow $15 at Starbucks because every writer is a Starbucks supporter, right? Then, after you’ve broken the fast you’ll sit tight and think. Like Winnie the Pooh. “Think, think, think, think, think!” As you batter and bash your poor ears with knobby hands and half chewed finger nails (you've also been disloyal to your previous pedicure). Regrettably, such self harm is inflicted to no avail. The furthering of your Advil addiction.

You reach a point where you wonder if you’ve approached the situation from an entirely destructive and useless POV (you’ve acted this way before, but your subconscious has the muscle memory of a Border Collie in his first days of sheepdog training. Let’s just say you forget you’re chasing your own tail.) And you resolve at last: "That’s it. I’m writing. No matter what happens I shall spill the ink of many pens and markers on sheets of paper and shall defy this malady once and for all!"

And just as you’re about to pen what could very well be the next great American novel -- a mischievous fairy boy sprinkles fairy dust over your eyelids and you succumb to narcolepsy. But, you end up dreaming the most fantastic dream. Picture this: you’re in the woods, and it rocks! You galavant about in the heat of young summer and encounter a fairy king and some actors and lovers, and then get super drunk and invested, but don’t really want to tease yourself out of the drama because it’s super exciting. Then, all the sudden -- wham! You’re awake. And super disoriented.

It looks like you passed out in National Geographic’s dark room, but images start to formulate on the walls and you realize -- no, you’re not in a zoo, you’re in your own room, and you’re just obsessed with horses (as evidence in the creatures plastered on posters to your right). Your alarm has been going off for an hour and 23 minutes and you’re low-key pissed you passed out before beginning your great American novel, but high-key groggily rationalize, “No, it’s fine I slept a negative 45 hours the past three days it was all worth it.” And then it hits you again. Wham, that dream! Oh, that glorious dream! Of pixie dust and dances and hot mulled wine! Oh, what an evening!

So, you launch your body off your bed and dive into your laundry bin that’s been sitting there for about a week and a half, but you’re a girl so it looks like you’ve gone through more clothes in eight days than your grandmother even laid eyes on in her entire lifetime, and you dig out your laptop (because you’re suspicious of that random roommate and have taken to squirrel-like methods) and start pounding away at the keyboard.

In two hours time you’ve got it! Killed it. Slayed the game and drank its very blood. You survey the piece like the schizophrenic coffee junkie that you are, and are so freaking proud! This needs to be published! You are the reigning champ! As you rapidly toss books in your backpack in preparation to seek out the most popular editor in New York state, a slim moleskin bound book falls onto the carpet. You bend down to pick it up and read the title -- oh, no. You just plagiarised, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

Back to square one.

And that’s writer’s block for you.