Writer's Block
Is there anything more self-indulgent (and dull) than a writer writing about not being able to write? Anyone who has ever decided to put pen to paper (fingers to keys, pencil to legal pad etc…) has faced the ego depressing sledge-hammer that is writer’s block. But to impart that upon a public that, frankly, deserves better is indulgent, melodramatic and vain.
And so here’s mine.
You see we’ve all done it and more will do so in the years to come. In general it is with a form of morbid curiosity that other writers will read this pap because we know that misery loves company.
Example: You and three strangers are late for a plane and miss it – but you don’t feel as bad as you would if you were the only one;
Example: You and three friends all fail the algebra test in year 11 because half of this stuff on it was clearly foreign and none of you have ever seen that shit before (because you were wagging that day and felt your time was better spent at the skate park).
As I sit on the plane from Melbourne to Perth, I am devouring Hunter S Thompson’s “Kingdom of Fear” and I feel “all-literary” all of a sudden. I admit that a healthy dose of inspirational vitriol from the good Doctor Gonzo is enough to inspire anyone – even an aging Luddite such as myself. The urge to write burns in the same way as a racing car driver must drive fast, a child must play. But I have no pen/pencil. Nor do I have an exercise book – so I open the laptop and begin to tap-tap-tap away.
Of course, this is nowhere near as romantic as the Marquis De Sade resorting to using his blood, semen and faeces to write on the walls of his prison cell. Although my desire is strong, I don’t think I have the required level of psychotic dedication to reach such inspiration lows. That takes a certain depth of desperation to which I am yet to resort. Of course, as a protest, it certainly gets the attention of those around you…
OK – subject…hmm…what to write about.
Ummm…
(Oh no…)
There’s nothing coming…
The block is no longer simply a broken down car in the right hand lane, banking back traffic for 2 kilometers whilst rubber-neckers gawk at a parked vehicle. It is now an entire city gridlocked – every traffic light flashing red/green/red/green ad nauseum. Thoughts flood that traffic will never flow again, people will live in their vehicles; children grow up in a two block radius of where we happened to find ourselves.
And the writer finds himself in that position – a no-man’s land between what he thinks he can be, what he reckons he can write and the bleeding obvious – A BLANK SCREEN. Reality can be a heavy weight when the expectation was so different. Oh, for a subject!!!
Well, there was the guy I met at the airport earlier today – a close-talking South African with halitosis. A combination that had me wondering what it was that I did to upset God that He would deliver such retribution upon me. I cursed God for being such a nasty vindictive bastard and then remembered the complex maze of sins that I had committed since my last confession….
……I’m not telling what they were though! That’s between me and the man upstairs however upon reflection I realized that the unpleasant situation I found myself in was nowhere near as foul as the punishment could have been for the litany of indulgences that I have committed. Quietly I thanked God for his understanding and compassion – for taking it easy on me in fact – all the while knowing that He has a sick and sarcastic sense of humour and He will get me in the end.
No doubt.
When I least expect it and most deserve it.
Anyway, I returned to my encounter with the Veldt dweller with the oral hygiene issue. Whilst standing in the serpentine and sluggish queue to drop bags at the airport (which moved with an eon-like velocity the likes of which tectonic plates would say “Shit man, GET ON WITH IT!), he turned to me and started a conversation half-way through:
“Now she’s gone to get a drink of water,” indicating a check-in operator leaving her station for whatever reason.
I was a complete stranger to him and yet I was now a participant in a conversation I didn’t realize I had entered.
(It’s like standing in the crowd at a football match when a player suddenly hands to the ball to you and says – “Go for it son, take ‘em on!).
I had no say in whether or not I wanted to be a part of this exchange and now I felt I had an obligation to continue a conversation I didn’t even know I was in.
“Yeah, well, I dunno.” This was about as much as I was prepared to offer. Had I been more forthright (i.e. had some BALLS) I should have countered with: “Just sod off and leave alone you smelly prick!”
But I’m a pussy; common decency (and airport security) prevented me from such an outburst.
As it was, my barely comprehensible reply was my way of telling this bloke that I’d rather staple my lower lip to the crown of my head than engage in further conversation but he was not one to pick up on such subtleties. Anything other than completely ignoring his comment was going to result in further discussion and I knew that. Sure enough:
“I have better things to do than wait in a queue. They should have more staff on.”
Oh no, I think, I have a talk-back radio listener here don’t I?
I offered no reply to my queue-friend’s observations and management solutions to the staffing shortage that seems to be afflicting Virgin Blue on this cloudy Wednesday morning. I also know that my passive resistance to this conversation was futile and it would continue on regardless of my participation or not.
“I can’t believe that they have all these flights leaving at once”.
Then:
“What’s with the ‘priority queue’ anyway? We’re all in a hurry”.
And:
“If I miss this flight, they will be sending me business class on the next one because I’m not paying any more money. They will owe me big time.”
It continued in this manner and I won’t bore you with details but I’m sure you get the picture by now. As his line-at-a-time oration continued, I tried to think of an “out”. I needed a socially acceptable one as I am the bastion of political correctness – I never wanted to offend anyone.
Honestly!
Besides, there are certain behaviors inside an airport terminal that you simply can’t do anymore. There's no sense of humour regarding a quick sprint through the check-in lounge. And the authorities are likely to frown upon a faked seizure or panic attack as well.
And I can’t even think of the “B” word.
Anyway, my own private purgatory continued in the queue and I started to think my in-line antagonist had a point – I too want this bloody queue to end and NOW! I decided to wear him down with ignorance. I turned sideways on to him and failed to reply. He continued unabated and seemed impervious to indifference and the stony silence his comments were receiving. This was going to take longer than I thought.
“They always take their time with the old people – why does it take longer?”
Followed by:
“Oh stop having a chat with him and just get on with it!”
There was the occasional “Huff” and then an audible “Sigh” that the pilots on the tarmac must have heard and mistaken for a leak in the tangled nest of wires, ducts and cables on the plane - it was that loud.
After 20 minutes I wasn’t sure when this would end and began to think that God has once again proved Himself to be one cunning bastard. Just when I thought I was getting off lightly, He prolonged the penance to a length that started to be more like torture than punishment. If He wasn’t such an omniscient being I could have kissed him for that out of respect for His deviousness, subtlety and craftiness.
Then, as quickly as it began, the conversation stopped without warning. It was over and my hirsute harbinger of halitosis decided that he no longer wished to inflict his thoughts upon me. I am unsure if it my Ghandi-like stoicism that has finally thwarted this oration of right-wing nonsense…or maybe he simply ran out of shit to say.
Either way I was free to continue my sloth-like shuffle with all the other automatons towards the baggage drop counter in silence which is just how I like it.
Hmmm….maybe that’s a subject for the next article?
