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Writer’s Block
I’d rather not be a hammer
Here, in my hand, is a hammer. Maybe by now my hand itself has become a hammer, ready to crush all that comes before me, destroying instead of recording the flow.
Apart from their nefarious psychological block on my writing, who am I to deride hammers, other than they are devoid of analytical endeavour, or able to pick an A from an O, or an E, being more of a simple banging type of object, the results from which, admittedly, one’s shelter over oneself is built, among other things. What could be more vital than that? Well, food, nourishment, knowledge, experience, or at least one of those. And maybe love, or companionship, brother or sisterhood, even a good neighbour, for apart from any one of those being necessary for survival, they may also be your muse: a person or personified force, says the all-knowing dictionary. Or both, if you include the forest. No hammer can do that.
Hammers, and chisels, screwdrivers, hooks, axes and drills are where one turns when words dry up, for rent needs to be paid, and beers need to be emptied, but it is too often a road with no return. Surely words too sometimes need a brutal hand to fit them into place? It used to be that the dictum for writers was fingers held to quills and pens, or typed onto keyboards, more delicately than world-reknowned ballet dancers could dance on the teeth of…
