A Tale of Deliverance

I haven't been here in a while. If you're not one of the people to whom I've bemoaned my writer's block, count yourself fortunate. But you still might enjoy the tale of deliverance below.

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Saturday was a lovely day. After returning from a sojourn at the library without any success in my attempt to create, I resolved to be content in my lack of creativity and settled into a comfy couch with a good book. The sliding door was open and the fresh breeze wafted through the apartment.

Suddenly I heard rattling from downstairs. Were my neighbors about to light up, thus destroying my peace as they are so often wont to do? Would the foul tobacco smoke heading straight in through my windows force me to close them once again? No, dear reader. Though it was my neighbors, it was a different smoke they had in mind. And thus they began to grill.

At first, I welcomed the change. This mix of smoke and scent I would gladly have in my apartment! Yet, as time passed on, my mood changed. I was transforming, becoming a ravening beast of hunger and salivation. I, too, wanted meat, charred and dead! I wanted those charcoals to be searing flesh of cow for me!

Finally, I could stand it no longer. I fled from my home, seeking out my own sustenance in the approved fashion, rather than rigging up some manner of hook and line and attempting to snag meat from the grill below me. After buying my slab of beef and cheese, I took it to a hilltop where I could enjoy it in peace amidst nature and words and none of my fellow humans (read: in my car in the Super Walmart parking lot overlooking some trees, listening to a book on CD).

And then, as if slaking this hunger was all the remedy my mind had been craving, I began having thoughts. Writing thoughts. I thought of something that had been bothering me about a story I wanted to finish. And suddenly with that solution came another sentence. And then another. And then several plot points. Which is when I realized the true horror of this divine moment.


Reader, I had nothing on which to write.


Panic began to set in. I scrambled for a receipt, a paper bag, anything, knowing it wouldn't be enough. Before this new madness could fully overtake me, however, I remembered: I'm sitting in the Walmart parking lot. I have the solution before me.

I rushed inside, bought a notebook, and made all haste back to my car and the writing utensils I always carry (I was not so far gone in my writer's block that I had forgotten those). And there I sat, scribbling furiously as one possessed, scribing not only those words I had earlier thought of, but new words, bold ideas, and an ending I'd never seen coming. Filled with glee, I laughed and cried loudly to the skies, "No more am I held down by your oppression, writer's block! No more will I be a pawn in your cruel game! I have seen the light of storytelling once more!"

What need of drugs when I my writing have? None, dear reader. None whatsoever.