In the realm of Story, where metaphors are real, writer’s block isn’t a condition, it’s a place.
Writer’s block is a huge concrete edifice, taking up one whole city block and rising many not-quite-finished stories into the dazzling sky of Silent City.
The enticing red light district known as Muse Mews is just down the street, but there’s always construction going on between it and the Block, so it’s actually pretty hard to get to.
Writers are always arriving at the Block and leaving at all times of the day and night. It’s a bustling, happening place. Sort of a hotel slash spa slash prison slash drug store slash slash slash SLASH…. Sorry. Let me continue. Writers are arriving and leaving all the time. When you get there, you find to your surprise that there are many perks and conveniences. The lobby is well-lit. Very well-lit. And clean. And neat. And the rooms are actually quite comfortable and spacious. Most of them have well-stocked mini-bars and comfy beds and HD TV’s and gaming consoles and big windows with great views where you can stand for hours, looking out over Silent City, thinking up all your awesome ideas for new stories.
And you discover to your relief that the Block is not the house of misery and gloom one might expect it to be. People who aren’t writers are dropping by at all hours of the day and night because the Block has become known for its wild parties. Man, the stuff that happens at these parties. Good times. The strange thing is, though, the writers themselves are almost never to be found partying. They’re more likely to be in the lobby, milling around in their pajamas (pyjamas?), looking for someone to tell about this great idea they have for a story about a writer who can’t write.
Unlike the Hotel California, you can’t check out any time you like, unfortunately. There’s never anyone at the front desk. And suddenly you can’t find the door. Where was the door? But you can leave. Yes, you can. Just not any time you like. Someone hands you a pencil and a pad of paper. You’re told you have to make your own exit. You stand there, listening to the all-night all-day party booming away on some story far above you. You could go back there. Or maybe do something else. You haven’t even checked out the pool or the hot tub, after all.
Or you could make your own exit. If only you knew how. You know how. You don’t know how. The party is getting louder. It sounds like such fun. Actually it sounds desperate and sad. You don’t know. Maybe there’s a story about that. Maybe you should just go back to your room and look out the window for a while and maybe an idea will come to you.