Writer's Block Blues:

I was staring into the abyss of the blank screen for what seemed like a good half hour. I glanced at the clock, but only 5 minutes had passed since my last check. My coffee cup beckoned to me, as though a sip would somehow start up the flow of inspiration. I choked on it and coughed some droplets onto the monitor. At least there was something to punctuate the gnawing silence and quiet desperation that was starting to creep into my mind.

I can't believe I thought writing would be a viable path to financial freedom. My friends are just sitting on their asses for most of the day getting paid regardless of what happens. I have to churn out this mindless drivel and if my publishers don't like it I don't get anything. I can't even remember what I'm supposed to be writing about. I glance at the list of articles I'm meant to complete this week and try to see if one of them can offer any inspiration:

"Homeopathic Cures for Erectile Dysfunction." "10 Reasons He Might be Jealous." "Veganism for Beginners."

I notice my loaded handgun sitting on the table next to me. It gives me a perverse sense of comfort knowing that the end is just a trigger pull away. Maybe I could write articles about suicide prevention; I had certainly talked myself out of it a number of times. With all the mental health problems in the world, why was I wasting time on these clickbait nonsense articles anyway? The utter lack of purpose and sheer meaninglessness of it all became so overwhelming that I just started clicking keys on the keyboard, as though I was an improv pianist in a jazz lounge.

Before long I had spewed out something that would probably be passable to my one publisher, but it made me feel like a fragment of my soul had left my body and was lost forever. I sent off the article and died a little more. Thank God my name would never be associated with this garbage. The term “ghostwriter” never felt so apt. I feel like an apparition even unto myself. I wonder if I could get paid per-word to write down my self-deprecating thoughts. It seems like there’s a market for anything these days. It would certainly be a way to get rich rather quickly.

The novel I promised myself I'd write before I was 40 popped into my head again. What the hell hasn't already been written about? An autobiography was out of the question; I'd done so little in life that I get bored just thinking about my own story. Maybe I could write a self-help book if I ever get around to actually helping myself get out of this mess.

In the meantime, the next article demands my attention. I write a quick intro and get up and go for a walk around the block to clear my head. The thoughts I have about the random people and cars I see start entering my mind as usual.

"That old lady looks like she's seen her share of action." I could write a novel about her. Maybe she was a really promiscuous gal in her time but never quite found Mr. Right. Now she's a shriveled up old has-been just shambling around with a head full of regret. I berate myself for thinking such thoughts about a poor innocent being, but it gives me some needed reprieve from my own inner nonsense.

The old Buddhist monk from the temple just outside of town is walking around the market with his begging bowl. Vendors willingly give him some of their best food, even people who I know aren't Buddhist. Well, if all you have to do is shave your head and wear some robes to get free food out of people I guess I have a contingency plan after all.

The monk bows to the sushi vendor and slowly walks back towards his monastery. I stare after him for a moment, almost wanting to jog up and ask to ordain myself. I remember that they take vows of celibacy and abstinence from intoxicants, so that idea quickly leaves my mind. I take out my notepad and quickly jot out some ideas for articles and think back to the novel that may never get written. There's only so much writing a person can do. A bottle of whisky and maybe a meal take precedence over my soul's yearnings, at least for the moment.

My most recent ex is across the street with her new boyfriend. We lock eyes for a moment and I feel pretty much every human emotion in rapid succession. I quickly turn into the liquor store. I know she sees me and is telling her new lover about my unabashed alcoholism. Maybe she'll mention my sexual stamina while she's at it, just to even things out.

The clerk looks up at me with a mixture of pity and friendly recognition. I try to pretend it's my first time in the store every time I come in; it's the only way to stave off the awareness of what I'm turning into. I browse around, pretending I’m buying drinks for a lighthearted party I might be throwing this weekend. The clerk and I both know what's going to happen, so I cut to the chase and buy my two bottles of whisky and leave promptly.

I walk back along a side street so I can get the one-man party started. I'm pretty sure I can feel the judging stares of elderly people in the houses that I walk past, but I just keep my eyes on the sidewalk and let the first few sips of sweet poison begin to work their demon magic. My favourite dealer is walking towards me in the other direction. I have 20 dollars left in my pocket. We both know what's going to happen, so I motion him towards the alley and we cordially complete our business. I feel my self-esteem ratcheting down another level. Ironically, a few decent ideas come to mind at the same time, so I scrawl them out before the oblivion starts to kick in.

One of the miracles of drunken writing is that I've gone into complete blackouts and come out of them with entire workloads completed and submitted right before the deadline. Other times I’ve turned in literary diarrhea and had to come up with a story about how my jilted ex lover was trying to sabotage my work. It's basically a coin toss as to what ends up happening, but not drinking doesn't feel like much of an option anymore.

The articles flow easily for the time being. I try to pace my rate of drinking in proportion to the amount of work I have to complete. Turning my self-destruction into a game of sorts seems to make it easier to justify. The time spent staring at the screen seems less of a problem now, and my fingers seem to know what letters to press in spite of my deepening stupor.

My consciousness starts to flicker out and I know it's time to let up on the whisky. The stuff in my pocket gives me the pick-me-up needed to put the final touches on the last bit of work. I don't really have the presence of mind to do much editing, but I sense that the work is at least passable. I see the file containing ideas for my novel beckoning me to start working. I open it and begin the usual staring contest with what seems like even crappier writing than what I just submitted.

"How can I find the gold in this pile of bullshit?" The answer is another couple sips from my bottle. Maybe an autobiography isn’t the worst idea, as long as I embellish the hell out of it and come up with some sappy happy ending. There’s certainly not much happiness to draw upon in my real life at the moment. The phone startles me and is kind of relieving to hear, even though somehow I know it won’t be good news.

“Your electricity bill is still overdue, if you can’t make a payment by Monday we will have to cut off your service.”

“What’s the minimum payment?” He tells me. At least I can manage to keep the lights on.

My old sponsor from AA calls shortly after. “Just checking in. We miss you at the noon meeting. How are things?” I try to keep my answers brief to avoid him detecting any slurring. “Well, just give me a call when you’re ready to stop drinking and try working the Steps again.”

I sense that he might be one of the only people that truly cares about me. It makes it all the more shameful that I can’t seem to pull my shit together.

I go from the computer screen to the slightly larger TV screen. Staring at some of the cringier commercials makes me feel like my writing content might actually be slightly above average. I soon reach the point of intoxication where my loneliness and bravado dictate that I start reaching out to various old friends and exes.

Thankfully, nobody answers my calls. They know me well enough to either block my number or not answer at this time of night. The lack of meaningful human contact prompts me to start working through the second bottle of whisky. Thankfully I don’t have to do any writing work tomorrow or things would look pretty rough.

The TV programs start to look more and more blurry and one show bleeds into the next. The next thing I remember is waking up with my ex that I saw on the street in bed next to me. She must have miraculously responded to a sloppy drunken advance that I made at some point last night. I recall that the guy she is with now is a big time body builder, and make a mental note to take my handgun with me the next time I leave the house.

There is a package of male enhancement pills on the bed, one of the brands that I write ads for. It must have worked well enough, since she has that same contented half-smile I remember as she sleeps. Maybe we can get back together for real if I ever get my drinking under control. She should be out for a while considering the collection of coolers on her side of the bed. She never even drank at all before she met me. She must have taken it up just to tolerate the rougher edges of my personality and mood swings.

I feel a vague sense of pride, as though “I still got it.” This is quickly supplanted by the massive hangover that I well deserve. I scrounge around for half-empties to take the edge off. I make do with her sickly-sweet remnants of wine coolers. Some real liquor will soon be in order.

I check my emails and see urgent messages from all my jobs that I submitted yesterday. Apparently I ended up embedding my articles with the most obscene and depraved vulgarities I’d ever written. I guess years of resentments finally boiled ever. At any rate, I was fired from all those jobs and am effectively unemployed, and most likely unemployable.

The bit of dope left in my pocket quickly vanishes as I try to fervently figure out a game plan. My ex stirs and moans softly, muttering some half-drunken gibberish. I hold my breath and pray she doesn’t wake up, not yet. She left her purse on the living room table. Bad mistake.

Since she has 4 twenties in her wallet it means she likely won’t miss one of them. Plausible deniability. “Babe, you must have spent it last night.” I forget that she knows full well that I’m a shameless thief, but it doesn’t quite seem to matter right now.

I practically jog back to the liquor store. The same clerk is working, and he subtly bows his head in pitious awe of my disheveled entrance. I pick vodka today just to mix things up, and mumble something about how I’m hosting a party as I slide him the 20. “No judgment here pal. Have a great day!” The shame of being so transparent sinks in pretty deeply and I consider calling my sponsor before pounding back the vodka.

When I return home I see that my ex has left, there’s a note on the bed: “Thanks for the good time, please don’t call me anymore.” She’s surprisingly polite in spite of all I’ve put her through. Maybe my sexual prowess partially makes up for my complete lack of integrity as a human being.

By some stroke of fortune there are a few jobs listed from companies that I didn’t manage to piss off. The easiest one seems to be writing an ad and some positive reviews for the same vodka I’m currently drinking. I’m so ashamed that I’m drinking it in the first place that it’s difficult to think of anything good to say. The cursor blinking on and off provides no inspiration. It seems like I’ve hit the point of diminishing returns in terms of alcohol being my muse. It doesn’t seem like there are any real options left. My sponsor phones again as though picking up on my desperation from across town. I answer with a feeble moan.

“You sound even worse than yesterday. What’s going on?” I try to cobble together a sentence but end up just crying and spluttering. A lifetime of emotional repression finally breaks through the dam, in spite of my best efforts to maintain composure.

“Do me a favor, Mark. Let this be your rock bottom. I can come pick you up for the meeting.” I mutter an agreement and shakily drop the phone.

The revolver seems like the easy way out compared to facing all my old AA buddies. I know they’ll welcome me back with open arms, so it's really just a matter of facing my own inner demons. I jot down how I’m feeling at the moment just to break the writer’s block. I feel a mixture of self-revulsion and anxious depression, but also a strange sense of peace that I can’t quite put my finger on. When he shows up at my door I can’t think of a time I’d been more grateful to see another person in my life. He hands me a cup of coffee and pats me on the shoulder.

“It’s never too late to change for the better, brother. Why don’t you dump the rest of that bottle down the sink before we head out.” I shakily manage to pour the filthy stuff away, feeling my emotional load lighten a little when the last of it glugs its way into the sewer where it belongs.I feel a deep sense of dread as we near the meeting. I picture all the friendly faces I vaguely remember turning to judge me and stare me down. I know it's just a projection on my part, but it's hard to shake it. I’ve used my own creativity against myself for a long time. How could I have been so stupid for so long?

“You’re a real smart guy, Mark. Most addicts are. We just have a lot more shit to work through than the average person.” He always seemed to have this ability to read my thoughts and offer a solution or some comfort. He’s a real spiritual dude, not like a monk or anything, just a down-to-Earth guy who loves the God of his understanding and spends his days helping others. He’s living the kind of life I truly want, but I’m not sure if I even deserve it now.

When we pull into the parking lot I manage a weak smile as we’re greeted by some of the old-timers. There are guys here who have been sober longer than I’ve been alive. They seem to give off this wordless serenity and confidence that I’ve never quite seemed able to obtain, drunk or sober. Maybe if I hang around with them for a while it will rub off on me.

“You really have to do the work this time, Mark. It's not enough to just show up here, drink coffee and flirt with the ladies. If you’re ready to dig deep and get really honest I know there’s a great life ahead of you.” There he goes again with digging into my soul, the bastard. I just nod and stare at my shoes for a while.

“Why don’t you start writing out what happened to make you pick up that first drink? Relapses don’t just happen in a vacuum.” At least that would be productive writing. Maybe I could even start writing recovery articles to help people even worse off than myself. The chairperson signals that the meeting is beginning and I try to marshal my thoughts and just listen for once. I hear a lot of good things that I’d heard in the past but today there is more depth and meaning somehow. It finally feels like everyone who shares is speaking right to my heart rather than my head. I’m in so much physical and emotional pain that I just let the words wash over me.

Even with all the shame and guilt I feel, something deep inside knows that I have a life ahead of me worth writing about. It’s going to be a lot of work, so I try to take some deep breaths and just keep listening.