YOU CAN'T DO JUST ANYTHING...

"Writing about a writer's block is better than not writing at all." ~ Charles Bukowski

I know it has been longer than usual between my posts and I apologize for that. I wish I could blame writer’s block. I can’t. First, it would be a lie. Second, I don’t believe writer’s block is a real thing.

I love writing. When I am not physically doing it, I’m thinking about it. Maybe not consciously to the exclusion of everything else going on around me, but subconsciously I am noticing and filing away sights and sounds and scents, and remembering to remember them so that I can write about them when life doesn’t get in the way and I can take the time to sit, percolate, and produce something out of all those pieces floating around my brain.

So, it wasn’t writer’s block. Today’s poem is a bit about that.

YOU CAN’T DO JUST ANYTHING. YOU CAN DO NOTHING OR…
YOU CAN WRITE

I’m not sure that “writer’s block” is a
real thing,

but I am sure that there are times
when I just

can’t get started — can’t get myself to
sit my

butt down and write something,
anything.

This isn’t for lack of ideas, however;
no, my head is full of ideas — like right now,

I could write about today — the
summer solstice,

or giraffes (it is World Giraffe Day
and I like

giraffes), or my favorite doughnut,
which happens

to be jelly, but I can’t find a decent
doughnut in my Traverse City

resort home-town with its abundance of
breweries, wineries, and burgers,

but dearth of doughnut shops.
No, it is not a lack of ideas that

is stopping me — it’s that there are so
many other

things I like to do, like Wordle, Sudoku,
Twitter, shopping

on Amazon, and I can do them all on
my phone

so convenient
but I can’t write on my phone.

Well, technically, I guess I can, but it’s
a pain because

my fingers aren’t that agile and my
eyes, well, I’m over 40 so, you know

So, unless I pull out my
laptop, writing isn’t in the cards.

But, I don’t think it’s honest to call this writer’s
block. It is more like writer’s stumble.

Neil Gaiman, an author of whom I am
quite fond

says his rule for writing is that he can
either do

nothing or write. Those are his only
choices. He can’t do just anything. So,

no Wordle, Sudoku, or Amazon
shopping for him.

Presumably, he has trouble doing
nothing so this rule forces

him to write. Fortunately, I have no
trouble at all doing nothing.

Watching birds squabble at the
feeders, sailboats cutting across the lake,

or clouds morphing into animals all
keep me equally entertained.