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| What story shall I tell you today? Where do I begin? "Once upon a time." No, too fanciful. "Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away." No, too predictable. Let's see ... what's left? "There once was a girl from ... "No, too comical. I have no opener for this tale. No set rules as to where to begin. Perhaps the middle? Who says there has to be a beginning? As for the end ... Choose your own. So ... It was the middle of her life. Nondescript tho' it were. It was her's. Semi-peaceful, sedate. Some might consider it all so boring. Uneventful. It was her's. She lived this side of the poverty line, that side of depression. All of which made her who she was today. No, no, no! That's not right! None of that made her anything less or more ... Those things just were. What made her who she was/is today, where the choices she made. The decisions she stood by. All the words in the world couldn't truly change the facts. Words were just tools she used, like the carpenter and his hammer. The writer and her words. A means to an end. One without the other was pointless. And she knew her words! She knew what emotion she could invoke. What arousal her words could bring. Twixt confusion and understanding, thought and form. She knew her words well. Then one day, so unexpectedly, her words failed her. That one vital thing, talent, gift, was gone. And in it's place stood ... a void. An unsurmountable canyon of verbose emptiness. Now to some, such mental quiet would be a relief, yet to the writer, it signals doom! "Perhaps doom is too strong a word here," the writer's mind commented. I refuse to reach for that blasted thesaurus! Doom it will be. Now where was I? Ah yes, the mental quite of writer's block. The words swirl around, like water in the bottom of a sink. You see the form, the beauty in the swirls, but can't stop it from flowing down the drain. You can't catch it in your hand without it dripping through your closed fingers. As for turning off the facet, in the hopes of saving the water? You can't. Can you push back the tide? Stop the world from rotating? Ah the true measure of writer's block! The verbiage of nothingness. The need to write for the sake of writing and in doing so, saying nothing. My point here? That's just it! I can't recall my point. I'm sure I had one. No, I know I had one. But just what that point was, has slowly traveled down the ever winding, garbage lined copper pipes of my mind. l'Extrémité |
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| Le Bloc de l'Auteur |