Why do I stare at the screen but type no words? Why do I find pages to click and stations to hear to distract myself from the project at hand? Why do I think myself in circles always ending up at the same blank page?

Hours and hours, iced teas and crackers.

The longer I put it off, the less rest I get. The less rest I get, the less I want to write. The less I want to write, the more have to do. The more I have to do, the less I can muster the strength.

I’m glimpsing the torture of Van Gogh and Picasso. Trying to force creativity can drive you mad.

I know what my problem is. I’ve spent all day defining it in my head. I just can’t do anything about it. The more I know I should work, the harder it gets.

It’s as if I’m floating outside my body and yelling at it.

All this thinking is starting to work against me. I feel like I’m starting to expect the worst. I’ve got writer’s block, so I can’t write. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. That’s just the way it is. I’ve convinced myself.

Maybe it’s gotten to be too late in the day. I should just relax for the rest of the evening and pick it up tomorrow. Then I’ll be more rested.

Maybe it’s too early in the day. If I could only get some coffee to light a spark. If I could only check my email one more time.

Some fresh air. That’s what I need. This stuffy apartment has snuffed out my creativity. I’m positively suffocating in here.

Maybe I should leave the dome and go be with the people. Yeah, that’s it. It’ll be good for my creative juices.

I’ve got it. I’ll play some guitar. That always helps me think. Or will that distract me?

Remember the good ole days… I could rip out pages and pages. I never got tired. Writing just gave me more energy.

Was that me?

Should I really be feeling miserable for myself? It doesn’t seem to be helping… or maybe it does. It gives me something to do.

If I had to punch a clock, I’d find a way to get through the day. I’d swing the axe or serve the drinks or do whatever the boss asked me to do. Why’s it any different now?

I’d stress and haul to tear my way through traffic if I were five minutes late for someone else, but when I’m on my clock… I stare at the screen.

Maybe I’m missing some part of my brain. The part that’s normal and lets everyone else work. The part that blocks out all the static.

What are all these words doing on the page? I have writer’s block. I can’t write because… I just can’t.

What’s the deal with all these words? Is it possible that I have something to show for my time?

Maybe I just wrote something.

Couldn’t be… I thought I was tired.

No, I definitely wrote something. Wow, where’d the time go?

I guess it’s not so bad after all.

Oh, I get it. You’ve got to trick yourself into it.

Just start writing and all the excuses start to melt away.