Welcome to the second installment of "City Slicker Coconuts".
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Sometimes I get writer’s block. Folks tell me it’s going around this summer. When this happens to me – which has lately – it feels like I forget how to spell or even hold a pen.
When I get the writer’s block, I want to give the block back to the writer. It’s not mine.
When I get the block I watch hours and hours of television. Out of all the drive-through psychologists, faith healers and fitness gurus nobody has a cure.
I sent a text to jesus and asked him to heal me. He answered, “Writer’s block? What’s writer’s block? I am the Son of God, I’ve never had writer’s block.”
Wadding up paper and snapping pencils in half doesn’t help; neither does wearing black berets, lighting cigarettes with wood matches or writing in public. Never write in public. The first step to recovery is understanding that nobody cares.
Drinking makes things worse. Whiskey won’t cure clap and it won’t take care of writer’s block.
Smoking grass always leaves me covered in crumbs and reading the backs of cereal boxes.
Then all of a sudden, I hear something that sounds like a twig snap inside my head. It's so quiet I can hear new sunlight crawl through the curtains. I can feel the thud of the morning newspapers against door on the block.
Something happens during the nothing and I start writing again.