Writer's Block.

I walk down Writer's block, pulling my coat in tight around me to guard against the chill in the air. Leaves blow across the pavement. They mix with crumpled up sheets of paper; paper covered in bold red markings from pens of frustrated writers. Through frosty windows I can see manic artists with their heads in their hands, staring at posters of Joyce and Steinbeck, begging them for an ounce of insight into the American psyche.

A shifty-eyed man wearing a brown overcoat meanders over to me. He is hawking pens and pencils.

"Hey! Pist! Pist! Yeah, you...what do ya' need? I got number two pencils, pre-sharpened. No? Okay, how 'bout some Bic ultra-glide gel pens? Huh? This is quality shit I got here...fresh from Office Max."

Neon lights flashing over pale-faced college kids, "We'll write your paper! Only $29.95!" They are hunched over lap tops, scoliosis from over-loaded backpacks, trying to write papers for other kids too hung over to write for themselves. Their eyes are hollow and their mouths are twisted in painful concentration. They too are fighting the beast of creativity's bastard opposite.

A little further down the block, a Starbucks looms ahead in all its corporately-created faux-eco modern comforts. Inside, the seats are littered with frazzled wannabe screen writers. They stare, with blood shot eyes, into blank computer screens. The cursor blinks repeatedly, but words do not form comprehendible thoughts. They tap fingers with brutally bitten-down fingernails against empty espresso cups. I watch as the wheels in their minds begin to turn, only to rust out into nothingness.

I leave the coffee shop, re-caffeinated but still uninspired. I continue to search the block for a brief moment of...something...anything, when I see what I believe to be the culprit of writer's block. In a neat little row of quaint suburban architecture, a movie theater, a Borders bookstore, and an internet cafe boasting free Wi-Fi stare me down.

Everything I want to say, will say, and have said, rests within those three buildings. There is nothing new to write about. Everything has been said. Movies are nothing more than regurgitated scripts written in dingy studio basements by under paid and perhaps under qualified Woody Allen-worshippers, glammed up by CGI and the newest "it" guy/girl of the moment.

I enter Borders. The brightness of the halogen lights invade my retinas and showcase my insecurities. Within this building, thousands of books by thousands of authors congregate in tidy little rows. Their spines in alphabetical order beg for chaos. All of these writers... It doesn't matter that they aren't any good...they're published! What could I possibly say that hasn't already been said by one of these people? How can I possibly standout as an inimitable new talent when "He's Just Not That into You" is a number one best-seller? Oh the humanity!

Lastly, the internet cafe, where the entire blogosphere is abuzz with the newest shenanigans of Britney Spears. Everyone is a writer on the internet. People think they are being expressive and artistic when they take an hour out of their "stimulating" lives to actually prepare what they're going to communicate on their myriad of social networking sites. "OMG!’The Notebook' totally changed my life!" Nailed it!

I want to scream and slam my fists into the ground...but I don't. What makes me any better than a random Facebook blogger? Am I so pretentious that I think its okay to judge someone for having different priorities than me? Yes, I am. But is that so wrong? What happened to having actual thoughts and concerns about topics outside of who's fucking this person; who's drinking what; and who's doing it better than everyone else?

As I make my way down Writer's block, I realize what the cause of my sudden lack of artistically-fueled literary composition truly is. It is not because I am not a good writer, I am competent enough. It is not even a lack of topics that impedes my fingers from making contact with my keyboard. But rather, it is a lack of true inspiration from the topics and people in our world. There are a myriad of things to discuss, but the real question is: are they worth being talked about? Do we simply write because it is our conditioning? We blog because we think our opinions matter, and perhaps they do. But maybe, just maybe, sometimes we all need to just shut the fuck up. Shut off our computers, PDA's, cell phones, etc. Sit down in a quiet room, and share our thoughts with ourselves. We are so busy being intertwined in other people’s lives, that we forget its okay to shut down and stop thinking.



I reach the end of Writer’s block. I turn around and see that my journey has brought me home. In the comfort and safety of my bedroom, my fingers flow over the keys. I rant about the lack of true literary artists, and about the generic opinions of gossip mongers on the internet. I ask how its even possible to take journalism seriously these days, when talentless hacks have taken over media. When people like Glen Beck and the mini-skirted mendacity that is Anne Coulter spew their vile "opinions"; fueling normal Americans into a hate frenzy...yes, I mean you Tea Party followers...

At the end of this senseless take-no-prisoners rant, I stare at the screen. It blinks back at me, somehow knowing what is about to happen before I do. I delete the page, and shut down the computer. Sometimes the beauty of free speech is knowing when you don't need to say anything at all.