Of the Gattuso Varietal

Back when I was in fifth grade, I tied a string around my bike's handle bars and gave it a name: Syllable. Lord knows why I gave my make-shift horse (technically, he was a stud) an English language function of a name... but I loved riding that thing - imagining it was a Warmblood, or an Irish Thoroughbred: the kind of horse I put on a pedestal.

No matter that my own horse, Sinbad, who lived and breathed and had made an impressive recovery from his previous owner's ignorant perception of how to feed a horse (he was severely malnourished when we purchased him), was a few yards away in our pasture. Syllable was perfection - the ideal that would never be tainted, seeing as I couldn't obtain it, or him, rather.

Sometimes I wonder if that's why I struggle with writer's block. Perhaps the ideas in my head, which I nurture and feed and condition and love as much as I loved Syllable, become less beautiful and impactful the moment they're real and on the page.

As the snow outside my window has been falling continually, I've realized that I've simply been watching it descend peek after peek, day after day - inching closer, closer, until I'm looking into a white soup of snow - and the piece on My Mini hasn't progressed whatsoever. What is it about procrastination and writer's block that seems to get the best of writers? Wouldn't it be so easy to just finish what needs to be done and not worry about it? Maybe. Maybe it's because writing is so subjective, as is how these pieces will be read. Everyone has an opinion, whether it's something I write for work or something I write for myself. No matter what kind of a writer you are, I think it's fair to say we want our work to be seen favorably.

But I think it's time for me to stop spinning my wheels and get back on the real pony - get back to what I really enjoy writing: fiction - and some funny blog posts.

Because really... who didn't enjoy the fact that I doused practically my entire room with candle wax?