Ever since Tyson told me that he’d have to work two Saturdays in January, I declared those two Saturdays my writing days. I would wake up bright and early, kiss my husband goodbye as I dropped him off at work, drive to my neighborhood Starbucks to get myself a soy hot chocolate and befriend someone who would be tasked with watching my laptop whenever I went to the bathroom, and then I would proceed to write the great American novel, all while listening to Katy Perry.
Instead, I woke up late (for a weekday, but pretty early for a Saturday), drove Tyson to work, and drove straight home, where a blank page mocked me and drove me to the Internet, where I proceeded to lose the next few hours. Time flies by when you’re wasting time, right?
When I was in college, I complained about writer’s block. I complained about it from the second I got my assignment to the night before. A few hours before a deadline, inspiration would strike, and I would write and write. I once even wrote a paper in the car on my way to class.
I miss being that person. I even miss deadlines.
Sometimes I think writers write more about writer’s block than they do about pretty much anything else.