There are so many wonderful things about being a writer.
You can create worlds, traverse cultures, inform the world, share an opinion, change minds, alter history.
In a lot of ways, being a writer, particularly a good one, is a position of incredible power.
That is, until writer's block hits.
It starts off innocent enough; you sit down, ready to begin your next piece, your potential world-changing article, the great American novel.
You start to type it out, pouring your heart and soul into every word. Your spirits are high, things are going well...
... that is until you realize that you've written the same paragraph six different times with varying emphasis and forms.
After a decent amount of this tedious back and forth, you decide that maybe a change of scenery will draw the inspiration out of you. You get a cup of coffee, maybe you're just tired.
You sit down and resume your battle with the written word, attempting to make it bend to your will, when really that blinking cursor just stares, unmoving, openly mocking you. The bane of your existence.
So you begin, once again, to write. If for no other reason than to prove to yourself (and the other people around you) that you are indeed a writer. Gotta preserve your image, after all.
You feel good about your progress, so you take a break to reread what you hope is a masterpiece, and realize that you were basically doing this:
A little dejected, realizing that time stopped mattering to you hours ago, you pack up and head home for the day.
You get in bed, ready to rest and forget about your horribly unproductive day when suddenly THE SKIES OPEN, YOUR MIND IS SUDDENLY CLEAR, AND EVERYTHING IS NEW ONCE AGAIN BECAUSE GOSH DARNIT YOU HAVE AN IDEA.
You jot down your new found inspiration, you might even bang out a few paragraphs, and then you celebrate because you've beaten your greatest enemy, dear writer.
