Last night I asked SuperDad what he thinks about all this writing I’ve been doing, and he shrugged and said, “It’s better than 90% of the drivel out there.”
Does that mean he thinks my writing is drivel?
Well, I know I’m not P.G. Wodehouse or Douglas Adams, but . . .
I don’t think I’ll ask SuperDad for his opinion any more.
Do you believe in Writer’s Block? I don’t. I think a writer can sometimes pay too much attention to the internal editor and that can gum up the works a bit, but there’s no need to call it Writer’s Block, as if it were an exterior object standing in the path, like a brick wall.
On the other hand, I smashed the big toe of my left foot on our Radio Flyer wagon’s wheel this morning, while jumping to rescue the toddler from falling over backwards and breaking his head, and the pain from the toe, the fuzzyness from the pain meds, and the let-down after all the drama blew over, have left me distracted, sleepy, and struggling to write.
I still wouldn’t call it Writer’s Block, though. I’d call it Writer’s Toe.
I’ve experienced Writer’s Toe a few times. It usually happens when I’m dealing with a challenge, a competition, or a deadline. It has only once involved an actual toe.
Writer’s Toe happens to everyone. No, you don’t have to be a Writer. No, you don’t have to hurt your toe, or even have a toe, for that matter. The only thing is you have to be alive, and trying to do something, and stuff keeps getting in your way.
Trying to get to work in the morning? The car is running on empty so you have to stop for gas, you spill your coffee on your shirt and have to go home or to the store for a fresh one, then you need to go to the drive thru for more coffee, then there’s a wreck or a tree or a cow in the road, which causes a traffic jam . . . you’re experiencing Writer’s Toe.
Trying to clean the house? You sweep the floor, take out the trash and spill trash on the floor, sweep the floor again, reach for the duster which is on top of the fridge, spill the Rice Krispies, sweep again, misplace the duster until you catch your toddler using it to scrub the toilet, throw the ruined duster away, take out the trash again, dripping toilet water on the floor . . . it’s Writer’s Toe.
Trying to make pancakes? You start heating the pan up on the stove, get out the Bisquick, drop the Bisquick, but fortunately the box was closed so at least you don’t have Bisquick everywhere, but as you bend over to pick it up your five-year-old Juggernaut impersonator barrels into the kitchen and straight into your rear end, which causes you to crash against the cupboards and bonk your head, so your glasses fly off and by the time you’ve located them the pan on the stove is smoking so you have to turn the stove off, turn the fan on, make the smoke alarms shut up, scrub the pan, and start all over again. Writer’s Toe.
Probably the only people who don’t experience Writer’s Toe are those who are dead, and the dead don’t experience lots of things, so I doubt they care one way or another.
That’s my theory, anyway.