Let's Play with Blocks.

Yes,  block(s) as in 'more than one'  because yes, there are more than one.  You have a pile directly before you.  Invisible. Not  the pile-up kind of wooden blocks little kids play with, letters printed on bright, coloured cubes, multi-coloured backgrounds. We humbly and perhaps numbly  pile those  up repetitively, the little ones giggling, and reveling in the empowerment of destruction, making castles fall down with outrageous laughter, enjoyment, a wondrous sense of accomplishment seeing our smiles.

Destruction of castles  we may have built so carefully, so endlessly, at times so painfully—is inevitable. It happens. Smile. Get used to it, Jack.

"Writer's block unreasonably prevents the reasonable assembly of words."

Wordsmiths tangle with writer's block in various forms.   We ponder, construct sentences, build paragraphs,  preview pages, even hold collections of  captive words in chapters for ransom at the point of a sharp pencil.

If piles of words work, Jack, they must stand tall and worthy and proud;   if they do not we may release them,  exiling them to dull, musty dictionaries.   We trade words thoughtfully,  and then wonder why.  We trash them,  experiment, or hit the delete key.  Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, before you change your mind.  Laugh raucously, go for coffee,  and  wonder why we didn't  order an expensive latté and  become plumbers instead.

Imagine. We could be turning on the tap, voila!  Water, ma'am, yes, now the pool shower works,  oh, lovely pool, by the way,  yes, and the bikini, I am blinded, you are a beautiful woman, ma'am—no,  alas, I cannot stay, I must not dally; duty calls, there are water pipes to be repaired at the  old orphanage —but alas,  writer's block unreasonably prevents the reasonable assembly of words.   Being  bears for punishment and reality, we have remained writers, so we start over, numbly rewrite, over,  over, and over; we must persist.

The trash can overflows, thought streaming, mind screaming,  the tap works, the bikini-clad nymph  objects tearfully to our parting, please come back after you rescue the waifs, my handsome plumber-man, your dinner can wait... as  the team spirit lags, disillusion swells, but we slog on.

Put them together,  Jack, the words, the 'what ifs',  no matter how long it takes; writer's block conspires like nameless, stony-faced three-dimensional chessmen to halt imagination and  word play; perhaps they delight in turning us into three-dimensional  Scrabblephobes with blank faces, blank spaces in every direction offering cobbled, unlikely words,  and tiny, annoying page numbers keeping score.  Motion ceases; writer's blocks prevent even the most diminutive  progress at times. We go screen-blind,cursor-numb  wordless, even  under the abated breath —and wonder why?

Challenging Writer's Block

We're going big time here, challenging writer's block, the bane of the writing universe, many variations of which affect all bloggers,  scribblers, poetic persons short storytellers, and writers of all genres. The block. 

What has it become, discovery of the most stubborn?  The muse leading a rebellion;  a refusal to cooperate with reluctant writers as creativity disappears on vacation to dally in sand, watch clouds, listen to pick-up-sticks chatter,  plant the garden, cut tall grass, and do the mundane, —the most mundane work possible, picking up stones, sticks, piling blocks.  Blocks. I blink.

It happens to everyone at one time or the other. Another angle. New. Better.        I see the blinking cursor, the blank screen, a pile of blocks, free of letters, words, sentences and paragraphs. Writer's blocks. Waiting to be filled in and re-piled.     I laugh.  Let the kid knock them down.   Writer's blocks are a joke. We persist.   Tomorrow is another day. You'll see.

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Is that Incoming I hear?