I suffered from writer’s block this past week. Yes, it’s real. Writer’s block exists. And it affected me.
I traveled with my wife to Pennsylvania to see Mom and celebrate her 90 natal day celebration and see family last week. I thought I’d write on the side. But no. Each time I sat down to write, my phone would ping with a text or ring with a call. I love ’em, of course, and was happy to do whatever favor was being asked, and appreciated getting updates, but The Writing Neurons were not as accepting.
Even on the flights, I had writer’s block. I pulled out my computer. Set it up. Began writing and typing.
Tap, tap, tap.
Wife: “How do I turn the volume up?”
Tap, tap, tap.
Wife: “I can’t get my tray up.”
Tap, tap, tap.
Wife: “Can you open this bottle for me?”
Tap, tap, tap.
Flight attendant: “Would you like more wine, sir?”
Yes, I know, I’m really stretching the complaining envelope here.
It’s good to be back in my cossetted, coveted writing routine. The Writing Neurons had become manic about getting more of the novel-in-progress written, pinging me via the headnet with new insights and plot points.
Now, time to write like crazy, at least one more time.





