She’s frozen by indecision and fear. Fear of boring people, fear of not writing a helpful piece that answers the so-what question, the why-should-anyone read what she has to say. She’s not famous, not a celebrity from the cover of a magazine. OMG!

She makes more coffee, listens to more music, takes a shower–anything to avoid the keyboard. It’s a dark and stormy keyboard. No, that would be the Snoopy’s keyboard. Damned beagle always has something to say. She’s forcing it. That’s not good. Writing, real writing should flow, just pour out of her, right?

It does not. Deep breath, just sit, stare out the window–oh, her window is a basement window with no restful, inspiring vista. It’s full of dead leaves and cobwebs. So is her head, webby. Is this writer’s block? Maybe block is the wrong word. It’s just a brick, a stone, yes, a pebble in her shoe. Aha! Metaphor, good old friend, rides in on its spavined nag and the mare drops a load on the office floor. Forget metaphor.

This writing gig is wrong. She’s all wrong. She gives up. No blog for you! Not today, never again. She’s going to look for real work. No more fooling with words, flirting with language. Every two weeks somewhere in the world another language dies out. It must be hers. English with a death rattle. And it’s her fault for abusing it. She cannot think of a thing to say.

That’s how it goes if Fear drives the bus. The writer gets lost, panic sets in. Trust becomes a thing  dead rich people leave to their kids. Books become doorstops. Enough already, the Sorcerer’s Apprentice has waved his wand and she’s drowning in a rising tide of ink. Take away the pen, put her to bed in a dimly lit room, and feed her broth and green gelatin.

Oops, a blog just erupted like a pimple on her chin.