I can’t write

I can’t write.

I’ve opened fifteen create-a-new-post windows (not all at once) and… nothing. Decided to take a break from the nothingness and fix some supper. Will blog more on the differences between and appropriate times to use “supper” and “dinner” at a later date.

I fixed Hamburger Helper. Cheeseburger Macaroni. Along with a delicious salad, composed of iceberg lettuce, chopped walnuts, dried cranberries, feta cheese, and a light raspberry vignagrette dressing.

And still, I can’t write.

Imagine Pavarotti opening his mouth to sing and there being only silence. Michael Jordan taking and missing twenty jump shots in a row. Bobby Fischer forgetting the Grunfeld defense, going off into exile, forming anti-American opinions, and… Wait, scratch that last one. Bad example.

Imagine a bird grounded. Not being able to fly. Or sing. A fish not being able to swim. A cat with no purr or meow.

That’s what it’s like when a writer can’t write.

“He says, Bill, I believe this is killing me, as a smile ran away from his face. Well I’m sure that I could be a movie star, if I could get out of this place…”