Oh, y’all,I have been having epic writers’ block recently – that written form of constipation that makes you think you might have something to get out, but really, you’re just going to sit there for a while and stare blankly into space contemplating what could possibly help to move things along. It’s the kind that makes you whine to your significant other about uncomfortable you are, how blocked you feel and wish that things would just move the hell on. Yes, I really did just compare writer’s block to constipation. No, you can’t un-read that.
I’ve had plenty of topics marinating in the noggin. But, the process of actually forming the ideas into coherent and witty prose has become an exercise if futility. My delete button is getting a lot more action than my return button. Here’s a typical blogging session: good idea pops into head; witty title is prepared; blank page is stared at; first sentence is written (usually starting with the very unimaginative “I”), and promptly deleted because it is a) stupid b) really stupid or c) so stupid a first grader wouldn’t want their name on it. Two sentences are written, then deleted. Switch to another topic entirely and repeat. Spend at least an hour exhausting ideas and fingers writing words that will be immediately deleted for their utter lack of value.
The thing is, I know what is holding me back. I know it like my son’s face and like the back of my hand.
I am deeply, deply afraid of offending you, dear Reader. What, you ask, might I have to say that would offend you? Well, I certainly wouldn’t comment disparagingly on your choice of outfit (which is lovely by the way – very flattering and the color really suits you) or your hair style (gorgeous!). No, I’m afraid that you’ll be really, really annoyed when I … complain. Sweet Jesus, I want to complain. But I want to complain about trivial crap. The minute I do thought I begin to think of those poor people in Joplin who would love to have a house let alone go through renovating the kitchen. I think about all those fine ladies still dealing with infertility and waiting for their miracle who would love to have a cranky toddler literally trying to throw himself out of their arms while they are walking. Or I think about people who are orphans and would love to have one more day with their parents even if it is to take care of their house and cars and mail and cable problems while they are gone for six months. Overseas. Traveling. Cavorting. Having FUN. (That’s a whole other post).
You see, life is doing its normal thing here – alternating between being breathtaking (rocking Rex to sleep tonight – if I could bottle that feeling and sell it, there would be no war) and unbelievably frustrating (the tile guys leaving chewed gum on my door jam after removing my old kitchen floor and gouging my wood floor threshold with the refrigerator. Yes, really.). But, every time I go to write about it, I imagine you – YES YOU – sitting there with one finger on the mouse going, DELETE! DELETE! That’s it, I’m done! She is an ungrateful spoiled brat and I refuse to read another post whining about overly privileged life. Or something like that.
The thing is, 90% of the time I’m very grateful for what I have. It’s the 10% of the time when shit breaks, when Rex puts on his cranky pants and cries because I won’t let him walk on the neighbor’s yard, when I have to spend 3 hours on the freaking phone with the cable company for my parents’ account because it doesn’t work, when the plumber wants to charge me $700 to install a freaking sink and dishwasher, I just want to tell you fine people about it. So, I’ll make you a deal: you let me complain and I promise to do it in the most humorous and fabulous way possible. I might even take the constipation analogy off the table. Deal? A girl’s got to have her
toilet soap box you know.