Writer's block is a pretty ubiquitous term: It describes creative stagnation. You want to make something, you set aside time and you physically prepare yourself to make something. However, nothing is coming out: You're just staring forward, completely blank upstairs. Like your brain went through a deep system update, and your firmware is in the middle of a hard reboot. Some see it as an overwhelming wall keeping you from crossing to the other side. I have a different perspective.
To me, writer's block isn't a condition, or an uncrossable barrier: It's an object. Specifically, a huge brick. The writer's block was mercilessly slammed into my head, repeatedly until I was confused and barely knew where I was. Then, after, I decided it was a good idea to try and record a coherent thought, and absolutely nothing came out. And this has happened enough to where my brain is now falling apart, and it's getting harder and harder by the day to pursue anything creatively, especially when it comes to my writing.
There are many ways I've destroyed my brain over the years: Concussions, alcohol, two and a half decades of watching Ed, Edd n Eddy. The writer's block is an exclamation point to the universe's passion project of making sure my brain is way too broken to function, let alone make anything I want to make.
"But Virus, those are all things you've done to yourself." Shut the actual fuck up, I don't need that kind of negativity in my life! It's the only way I can explain why it seems so hard for me to... just do it nowadays. While also explaining why my brain is broken 2 da poitn wheer i kant du werds gud nemoar.
It's bad enough that I probably have ADHD. Yes, it's self-diagnosed, but we self-diagnose all the time. The person who parked that huge van outside self-dianosed themselves with having general intelligence. Seriously, who sees a residential block with horizontal parking on one side and thinks, "I should park this long-ass van on the side that doesn't require occasional parallel parking!" I hope every possible tragedy that life has to offer happens to them, and only them, all the time and all at once.
...What was I talking about? Oh, yeah: ADHD. I have the attention span of a gnat, so I don't really think it's a stretch for this regular person with no background in behavioral medicine to conclude that ADHD is more than likely happening upstairs. And that's without taking into consideration the infrequent hyperactivity.
It's one of the reasons I try to make my surroundings more... dynamic; at least, when I'm prepared to write. Yet, I'm sitting here on the couch I sleep on, typing this shit onto my Thinkpad, so look how far that's gotten us.
Now that I have hisvirusness.com back, I SERIOUSLY need to do something with it. And I think I might take shit back to 1998. I might even put this nonsense on the site, who knows? However, I do know one thing for sure: I gotta destroy that God damn writer's block. Gotta grind it up and turn it into cement to use for building something new.
Also gotta make sure not to get any on my shoes, or else it's gonna go back to holding me back all over again.