Writers block – like a stone wall between the fantastic and the snow white icy lined tabula rasa. It creates emptiness and frustration like a painter without a brush, or perhaps even worse: only gray paint and a rainbow inspiration. Writers block is like smashing your brain in a door, but a car door, not a garage or house door. For a writer – it is like having your fingernails ripped from your hands with a rusty old pair of pliers found in the fiery depths of grandfather’s garage – behind his 1985 almond white Cadillac – in the bottom left drawer of his toolbox. An enigma; like a ghost thief stealing your ideas through your ear; or perhaps, through your nose like an Egyptian ummification ceremony at your desk in your home office.

Then, like a Christian’s salvation the block is broken, the images, the allusions, the parodies, the diction pour in. Writing – more rhapsodic than a thespian is conceived. The author bores a baby, the future Marilyn Monroe is written. A Utopia of writing thoroughly enjoyed by every author occurs; until the next tragic block of the writer occurs – more painful than the last.