Versus

My friend, on her website, recently made the complaint that she is suffering from writer’s block. Not that she believes in writer’s block and nor do I for that matter, but for whatever reason that is out there, she is unable to put pen to the paper.

I have been doing a hellish self diagnosis on myself, as of late (as the quacks at Web MD have yet to recognize Writer’s Block as a disease). My discovery was that while I could think of interesting ideas for articles, stories and all the like, I have grown so sick of the voice inside of my own skull that I don’t wish to hear me say anything or at least not tell those stories.

A better writer than me would switch gears; let another part of their brain take over. I find this extremely difficult as those stories don’t belong to that part of the brain and I’m jealous enough over the stories that I don’t want to share them, even with myself.

Regardless, the following conversation happened between the lobes of my brain with a woman that looked like she should be part of the French Resistance. “Call me Calliope.” She tells me, patting my hand while blowing smoke in my face. She has ratted, long, black hair and dirt on her face that almost passes for a five o’clock shadow but only makes her fierce grey eyes stand out with more wildness. Slung over her shoulder is a semi-automatic sub machine gun, not that the gun is a threat.

“But ze truf, ze storay, it mus cum owt”, she pleaded with me.

“Seriously, sweetie, you’re really cute, but this is a story of lies, deception, beauty, love and alcohol. What the fuck do the French know about those?”

“Seir, you have jus stated our nashiunal mottO. You sthrow in a little bit of surrenduer and you have the Freanch to a fAult.”

I knew she was right, of course, but still didn’t want to give into her. So, instead, I seduced her (this was made infinitely easier as she was already in my brain). Roughly five minutes later, while cleaning up and further hating myself, I realized that I didn’t wish to write and instead passed out in my own cliché.

The work that I wished to accomplished is still safely tucked up in my brain, wrapped in some vault until I find that spark, that divinity that could loosen a Kraken. Please send home remedies or actual doctors (hint: their offices should end in the words “tavern” or “bar”) that could cure me of this horrible and horrific disease.