Dear Writer’s Block,
I’m not sure if you’re a Mr. or a Ms., but I picture you as a Mr. The kind of Mr. that is the old neighbor from two houses down. You probably yell out your bathroom window “shut up!” every Saturday when the family of four in the house next to yours has their summer barbeques. You probably hate Christmas.
Maybe I’m being too judgmental of you, but then again, these are the best thoughts my brain has to offer. Thanks to you. At least I didn’t paint you out to be a spider.
Mr. Writer’s Block, why must you attack me at the worst possible times? You rid my brain of positivity and motivation; you take the ink right out of my pen.
You fill my brain with thoughts of “this sucks!”, or worse, no thoughts at all. Blowing any good ideas out of my brain, with the same annoyance and aggression as when you are blowing leaves in the fall.
And then you hiss mockingly in my ear, “go ahead, write something,” hovering over my back, ready to smear Wite-Out over the words I write. Your tone is snake-like and crackled, you’ve been saying these things for years.
Well, let me tell you something: I will not be stopped. There will come a day when you are too tired to get out of bed and put on your moccasins, to trod over to my place and deter me from creating. There will come a day when I no longer care about your negative opinions of my work. And there will come a day when the thoughts in my mind are just too colorful, too vast, and too permanent to be erased.
You will be overwhelmed by my ideas, and in a desperate attempt to stop me, you will crank up your leaf blower to the highest possible setting, running out into your front yard in your robe, screaming madly at the sky.
But just like Uncle Vernon trying to stop the post from coming to 4 Privet Drive, you will be unsuccessful. You will fail. And I will laugh.
Mr. Writer’s Block, you are the common enemy among writers worldwide, and we are coming for you. We will prevail. We will gain back our power, our words, and our strife. These are our papers, our pens, and our stories to write. And this time, your words will not deter us. Your Wite-Out will run out. Your leaf blower will get jammed.
So, take this as a warning: you are messing with the wrong crowd. You are messing with the thinkers, the dreamers, and the believers. You are messing with the people with voices too loud to drown out. You are messing with the people who hold the pen in their hands, possessing the power to write you right out of this story if they wish. And we do.
And we will.
The One Holding The Pen