At Least I'm Not Alone

Well. That's a relief. A spot of insomnia and online wanderlust led me here.

LICD, or Least I Could Do, is a very sexist comic. Mysogynist as the day is long. And still occasionally brilliant. Ryan Sohmer's been writing it for years. As divergent as I occasionally find his humor, it's nice to know that everyone gets that goddamned sonofabitch Writer's Block now and then.

So that's nice.

Razza. Fragga.

I am stymied. Stymied is the single most appropriate word for the state I am currently in. It is also the last word I have. I'm out. Of words.

Writer's Block is a real bitch.

I'm sitting on an idea. A good idea. A very good idea, in my own opinion; with scads of potential, through which I would love to romp. Yes, romp. In slow-motion if the mood struck me.

Sadly the only thing that's striking is a goddamned case of Writer's Block preventing me from getting past page nine.

Will it pass? Probably. The problem is that when it comes to the muse, I am 100% her bitch. I can do nothing to get her back faster. So.

This is me, twiddling my thumbs.

... Dammit.

On Writer's Block

Yesterday, I got absolutely jack squat done, writing-wise. That's okay. It was Sunday, known as 'a day of rest'.

Still-- I would have liked to have made some progress if I could help it. I'm working on a few things at the moment; namely transcription and script-writing (for projects I can't wait to divulge more on). For the life of me, I just couldn't make a dent in any of it.

That was yesterday. This morning, I seemed to be back under my own steam again.

I just don't know what it is. Was it a funk? Was it a slump? Was it just a mundane 24-hour block on the brain? Who knows. The day we figure out how the hell Writer's Block works is a day a lot of people toss out their squeezy stress balls. (I don't have one, I'm just sayin'.)

In any case, I'm grateful I only get the occasional case of the stuff. If it happened more often... Well. Let's not dwell on the possibilities.

Ciao for now, folks. Back to it.

Here's What I Think Of Your Stupid Writer's Block

Ah...

I feel better. I do. The Writer's Block, she is gone. Kicked her behind to the curb, thank you very much.

And the script for issue #1 is finished. It's the right length, the transitions aren't too blocky (I hope), and it has enough gag-details in the background to satisfy yours truly. So there.

Spending time outdoors helped, I think. It was an amazing day yesterday; found a park and had an early dinner. Outstanding. The walk later didn't hurt, either.

I'm wondering if I'm going to attempt to draft issue #2... I don't want to get ahead of myself. Don't want to get with my pants down either, but still. Something to think on.

Thanks to everyone that offered assistance... this crap usually has to resolve itself, but the offers were nonetheless appreciated.

Tomorrow, I have rehearsal. Sunday, a bunch of ex-Assassins are heading, ironically enough, to Ford's Theatre. Hah. That's about it, at the moment.

More to follow, I'm sure. On what, I haven't the slightest idea.

Curse The Luck

Folks, I'm currently locked in no small case of writer's block.

Damn.

I'm trying to finalize the script for my comic project-- two things left here, and at the moment I seem incapable of doing either. Ain't that somethin'.

...

I got nothin'. Hopefully a walk later tonight (after rehearsal) will assist in getting said juices flowing; otherwise I'm-- I can't even come up with a euphemism for being screwed. Wow. This is bad.

Okay. Nothing to do but walk away from it and then come charging back when it's not looking.

More to follow; God willing.

Writer's Block

Urgh. Stupid Writer’s Block. It deserves to be capitalized, believe me.

I’m trying to work on a few projects; writing a new play and touching up an old one. I know where I want to go with things, but getting there is proving difficult. At the moment, dialogue feels forced and awkward. Lyrics aren’t coming at all, outside a particular beat pattern I don’t want to use.

I like this new play, so far. It was going great the other day. Now I’m on scene two (the second pair of characters are conspiring together) and I can’t get two lines out without pulling teeth. I can write for women. I’ve done it before, but at the moment: nada.

And I mentioned lyrics… When I was in college, a fraternity brother and I were working together on an inappropriate musical. It was *fun*. I turned out six songs in less than two weeks. Not all of ‘em were gold, granted, but one or two had the goods. A few months ago, Beth asked me (or maybe I just volunteered, can’t recall) to write some funny lyrics to a song in Kiss Me, Kate. She’s used ‘em once or twice at auditions, and the castors seemed to love it.

Last summer I wrote a murder mystery called Dead & Breakfast, a comedy thriller starring movie monsters. At the time I jokingly told myself that all it lacked was musical numbers… lately it hasn’t seemed like a bad idea. Except that today, I can’t put one verse together without deleting it for lack of any kind of quality or flow. Bugger.

Trying too hard? Maybe. It feels like the kind of Block that one could PUSH through to the other side, rather than to drop it and come back. Waiting may end up being my only option. In any case, I need a little break from it.

More to follow. I hope.

Writer's Block

Hrmf.

Every once in a while, it hits. One of the most reviled, feared obstacles to being a writer... And there's nothing to do about it. It just comes in and sits on your head, like a 24-hour virus (If only it could last a predictable amount of time; say, 24 hours.), and like the quicksand to your Artax it is, you're screwed. Struggle, you get nothin'. Accept it and remain passive, still nothin'.

I'm aware of the small irony of writing about writer's block. I could spew thoughts all day. What I was trying to do was write a sketch or two for the comedy troupe I belong to. I even have a premise to go on, but when I stare at that hungry white screen, the words just. Won't. Come.

I've been fairly lucky. It doesn't hit me all that often. Still, blocked I am and blocked I shall remain for however long it decides to stay. Curses.

**Twiddles thumbs**

Rats.