The man sat at the computer to type a short story. He didn’t have any ideas, and after one terrible attempt at writing a national anthem for St. Lucia, a country he knew nothing about (besides Nette saying they had good rum), he decided to do the most overdone post a writer ever could do – blog about his writer’s block.
Oh, writer’s block, you savage beast. You are the worst of all the blocks. Like a square that is too big for the square hole. You are really screwing me up, writer’s block, for I am gaining lots of new Watties, and I think important people are starting to pay attention to me. But now you’re going to ruin all that, because you won’t let me think.
I’m left to wonder what will come of this post, I can already see the heads bashing on the keyboard, and am too afraid to know how many readers have already clicked the ‘back’ button, and searched for a more meaningful post.
And yet, I go on. Why? Because you want me too? No, I’m afraid. Because I want me to. Because I like to impress those around me by typing really fast. Because I can only wonder how many girls find fast typists attractive. Because the question of whether or not one’s ability to type could attract a mate is currently consuming my mind, and most likely shall proceed to the rest of the day.
I’ll bet you didn’t know this, dear reader, but petty preoccupations such as the ‘sexual typists’ dilemma bounce around my mind incessantly. I have loads of these strange wonderings, all of which eventually will develop into theories, and these theories will go on to be tested in real life scenarios.
Not to get ahead per-say, or to impress. Just to know. There is a large section of my brain completely dedicated to a constant study of the human condition. I try to write from this section of my brain.
Well, fair well, writer’s block, I suppose I could at least thank you for forcing me into a rendezvous with blogger’s circle.
A-hoy St. Lucia,
Thomas M. Watt