My vitamins would be alphabetized from A to Zinc, my nightstand drawer would contain no crumpled tissues of questionable provenance, and the frisky lint bunnies behind the dryer would now be reproducing in the rubbish bin.
For me, writer’s block doesn’t get the housework done, but it is what keeps the Internet humming along. And I don’t only turn to the Internet as a writer’s avoidance behavior, either. Hanging out online may prolong the blocked condition somewhat, but if I give the Web even half a chance, it eventually provides the cure I so desperately crave.
First, of course, there’s Facebook. Like other writers, I’m lonely. Ye Olde Writer’s Cave is dank and dreary and its stalagmites stab at my soul. But scrolling through my news feed–replete with photos of gregarious dogs who say funny stuff, sullen cats pictured splayed across Other Writers’ Keyboards, and videos of friends’ new grandbabies–brings me to my senses fast. There are worse things than loneliness.
Like wordlessness. And booklessness. And publisherlessness. Oh, my.
If Facebook somehow fails to snap me out of writer’s block, I click over to Pinterest. Within seconds, I’m immersed in a fantasy world of exotic locations, bohemian wardrobes, hunky men (some of my Pinterest friends are edgy with their pinning!), gorgeous homes, and just desserts.
It’s the desserts that get to me, if anything on Pinterest can. I’ve read that even viewing a luscious treat can cause–in some susceptible individuals–an insulin response with corresponding weight gain.
Let’s just say I’m highly susceptible.
When I literally feel my bottom-in-chair growing larger while innocently viewing the ingredients list for yet another bacon-intensive appetizer, I know I’m a site closer to loosening the block’s grip on me. One more stop on the Internet and I’ll be home free and back to cranking out another chapter.
I know exactly where to go, too.
If I truly can’t find two words to put together, my fingers click over to Craigslist, the piece de resistance in breaking the back of writer’s block.
Now, not just any category on Craigslist will do. I skip the ads for RVs and energy-deficient major appliances and ancient treadle sewing machines. I have no use for the personal ads, and discussion forums about dying and haiku aren’t really my thing.
Instead, I wallow in the hundreds of jobs on offer, immerse myself in the positions I could be applying for that might surreptitiously scratch my writer’s itch, that might anesthetize the pain I experience when I’m not doing my real job. The job I’m meant to do. Putting down glorious words, one after the other, preferably in the best possible order.
Can I hope to find employment as satisfying as writing is on a bad day, a job that could truly replace my need to write?
I pass over the ad for an exotic dancer for bachelor parties, but not without thinking of that Facebook poster that shows two gals dancing—one young and agile and the other old and clumsy. The captions read, “How You Think You Look” and “How You REALLY Look.”
Then I skim this heading: “Bilingual Interpreters Wanted! Spanish and Many Other Languages!” But somehow “many other languages” seems like Triglingual Interpreters Wanted. Or perhaps Quadlingual or Quintlingual, not that it matters. I only speak English with a smattering of adorable French phrases thrown in, mostly on the topic of finding the salle de bain closest to my train’s platform.
Being reminded of my obsession with locating the bathroom (in as many languages as necessary) draws me to another ad, this time seeking a participant in a medical study about urinary incontinence. It offerers $1200 compensation for time and travel expenses, plus a generous Depends allowance. I shake my head in dismay.
“You’re all wet,” I say to myself, a victim of my own dry wit. “These jobs aren’t for you. Maybe you should start with finishing this blog post, and then see what happens next?”
Before I shut down Craigslist, my eyes fall on one last ad.
“Surrogate Mothers Needed! Earn $28,000 and Up!!!!!” I feel a visceral (if latent) nurturing instinct flow through me while reading the job description. The money is certainly tempting, but then it hits me. They’re probably looking for someone with a uterus. There’s always a catch.
So that settles it. I’m a writer, and getting caught in a bad job won’t fix that. Only writing will. Once again, the Internet’s cured me of a vicious case of writer’s block.
This time, I hope, for good.
Do you suffer bouts of writer’s block? Any cures you’d like to share?