Writer’s block

Good day ladies and gentlemen, welcome to a very special edition of today’s blog entry.


There may be some disturbing scenes in here. No animals were harmed during the writing of this tome.

Today, at my non-writerly job at the salt mines, it was while I was getting a tremendous flogging from one of my superiors when I came up with a fantastic idea for today’s blog. I thought about that shiny new idea right up to the public shaming which was when I came up with a couple other great ideas to add. As the day wore on and the humiliation and degradation from the gallery of hypocrites and cowards progressed, and continued much longer than normal, I ruminated on these ideas as though they would be a substitute for the random cancelling of all eating for the day.

Walking home along the trail of Rage and Flatulence I had to stop to allow people, who walk much slower than I, to proceed ahead of me. My one hour walk home will now take two hours. The man behind me wants to walk much quicker than the woman in front of me and now I have odd pains in my neck and my bum. The longer trip gives me more time to rethink my blog entry idea for today. Soon I am close to home and I am able to get out of the fray. They all look upon me with envy as I enter my hovel, I’m the one with the open pit toilet inside my hovel, that’s right my open pit toilet is inside.

Once inside my hovel I am so cold and hungry. I light the cat on fire and stuff it into a small tin box. That starts to warm my hovel and soon enough I can put some potatoes into the box. I go out to get another cat. I can see some people are still walking home while I am at home already, using my toilet, burning the cats and making potatoes. I throw rocks at them, that’s what happens when you’re late. I finish throwing rocks, I go back inside to commence with the excessive drinking and swearing.

I take out my quill, scrolls and ink. I sit down to more alcohol and begin to write, but instead of writing I sit and stare out the window. I look around my hovel and make plans for cleaning and decorating, I stare out the window some more. My hourglass is running and will empty soon; I will need to go to bed so I can rest up for tomorrows rancid shift at the salt mines. I look at the blank paper and I freeze, I cannot move or think. I forgot about all my ideas that I had been thinking of at the salt mines.

I cry: writer’s block! That’s right folks, looks as though we have ourselves a good old case of writer’s block here at The Rusty Prose.

I told myself to write it out anyway. So I did, and I could not get through a single sentence

I didn’t forget, I just couldn’t formulate one idea I had into a cohesive sentence. I convinced myself to write through it but nothing was working, I guess I wasn’t feeling it, or wasn’t ready to tell that particular story, either way, it was was a struggle. I tried, one sentence after another came out like mud, they were horrible and hideous, I had to turn away.

Well, this was my way of bashing my way through a writer’s block. It may not be pretty but it’s better than the dribble I was putting out, or the blank page I stared at for what seemed like an eternity. I had to admit defeat and tell myself that it wasn’t working, so then I changed my plans all together and tried something different. Sorry if this too made your eyes bleed but this is one of the reasons I started a blog, to ramp up my creative energy.

If it happens again I will turn it into an opportunity to practice my poetry.

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