Every writer out there has a story about how they can’t write.
About how the words are stuck so far up their ass that it’s diminishing their will to live. That because they can’t be all creative they are going to lose their job, their wife and kids, and become a drunken vagabond slumped under a bridge–or worse–that they’ll lose their minds: poetic lyrics will never again seep from their soul. They complain about how people will begin to think that they are a lame, crippled individual who lost their mojo. How their brains are sore, and fingers torn from flipping through pages of a thesaurus. About fidgeting and uncomfortableness, about crumpled papers and crumpled dreams, about the sun, sky and moon: more awful words. And they stretch, twist and wring themselves to squeeze out something interesting for their readers.
This is mine.
