Hello?

Sorry, I’ve never done this before. I’m standing in for Ted. He already made up his mind before he left work on Thursday that he wasn’t going to write anything. I can sympathize, but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to sit by and let things slide. Not like I usually do. I’m taking charge and writing this myself.

I guess I should introduce myself. I’m his muse—and before you accuse me of slacking off, let me just say that Ted has written a number of perfectly good articles without me. I’m picking up the Not a Blog ball because things have come to a head. It’s not just a matter of laziness—quite the opposite. Ted’s been so busy that even if I did give him another smash-bang idea, like Player Piano or Writing License, he wouldn’t have the wherewithal to write it.

And I know this for a fact because I have given him plenty of good ideas. I think he might have mentioned that. He tried to write some of them, but failed. That is Writer’s Block. People think that Writer’s Block is this sort of stupid thing that comes to unmotivated people. That is to say, people who are unmotivated to write use Writer’s Block as an excuse when they don’t have anything to show for their “effort” in “writing”. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, right? Nope. Writer’s Block—the real deal—is a vile, insidious demon. It takes someone who is absolutely motivated to write and makes them ineffectual. Impotent. Ideas exist in the writer experiencing Writer’s Block. Concepts are there. But formed sentences flit just outside the bounds of comprehension. Words exist only as individual entities. Putting them together drains them of meaning. This is the work of Writer’s Block.

I want to help; I really do. But I’m a simple pan-dimensional creature of imagination. I can only do so much. (Although I have to say it was nice of Ted to allow me to use his body to type this. He would rather be doing other things.) Idea supplication—and the occasional Not a Blog stand-in entry—that’s about my limit.

As many of you no doubt know, the Writer’s Block demon is summoned as the result of a jinx. If not Writer’s Block in particular, you’ve experienced it in other places: telling someone you’re a good driver will summon the demon of Traffic Violations, who will then promptly possess the next person you meet who should give you the right of way. And never, ever, under any circumstances, summon Murphy’s Law by wondering aloud, “What could go wrong?” Your fellow homo sapiens should have every right to slap one who so openly flirts with the demon Murphy.

Anyway, Ted did this recently: mentioning to someone how prolific he was when writing. I wasn’t there or, believe you me, I would have stopped him. He gets himself in trouble like that.

Hey! Are you quite finished?

Okay, sorry, I’m almost there.

All that to say that suggesting ideas doesn’t help. That’s what I do, and if it doesn’t work for me, it won’t work for you, either. Exorcising Writer’s Block is a difficult ritual, if only because it’s different for every sapient on the planet. (Well, every sapient, period, but that’s irrelevant to you humans at this point in your time.) Ted hasn’t figured out what works for him, yet, and neither have I, so we’re just going to have to ride this out. Although it doesn’t frustrate me nearly as much as it does him, it’s still annoying. I mean, I can’t do my job when he can’t do his.

Okay, you’re done.

Well, I know it’s not your job—

No, as a matter of fact, my real job all I’ve been doing.

Yeah, I know. That’s what I’m saying.

Fine. You said it. They get the picture. Now

I’m trying to—

give me back the hands

I don’t think I want to.

I don’t think I care. I don’t think you
have a choice, either. Come on, let’s go.

Alright, I have to go, folks. Nice writing to you all.
(Look, I’m trying to help you, here.)

And you’re doing a fine job, I appreciate it.
Except I don’t like being stuck in italics on
the right margin. Couldn’t you have used,
er—never mind. Look. It’s eight o’clock;
I’m done being online. I want to get to bed
early tonight.

Okay.

Sorry about this, everyone.
I don’t have split personality disorder,
although I argue with myself probably
more than is healthy.

That’s for sure.

Quiet, you. But he’s mostly
right. I’ll be back on Monday.

And if you get a chance, curse Writer’s Block for us, would you?

I already did that.

What?

I already cursed Writer’s Block.
I did it back in Curses. One of my
personal favs. I never thanked you
for that one, so thanks.

Well, you’re welcome. My pleasure. That’s what I do.
But, erm—maybe this isn’t the right time?

For what?

Um—to tell you didn’t actually curse Writer’s Block in Curses.

I—what? You’re joking. Hold on.
…
I’ll be darned. How about that?

Yeah.

Huh.

Well? Go ahead.

Uh, of course it’s not a vice.

What’s that got to do with anything?

The curses in Curses are vices,
guilty pleasures. Writer’s Block isn’t
any sort of guilty pleasure. It blows.

True, but irrelevant. The curse will still work.

I don’t know…

Trust me.

Hmm. Okay, here goes. Uh—hands, please.

Thanks. Ahem.


Writer’s Block: Curse you, Writer’s Block! You are not content to simply whisk away one’s ability to craft language on the written page; nay, you must also leave one’s motivations and inspirations intact. Indeed, these things are magnified—multiplied!—in the absence of deft communique, leaving an embittered husk where once stood a writer. “If only effortless apathy would be forthcoming,” is their plea—yet you prevent such relief. For this I curse you thus: may you receive the brunt of that self-same effortless apathy, that you find it always easier to rot before the television than respond to the summons of a jinx.

-Ted
(and Muse)