I hate it when I write myself in to a corner, and I do it way too often.

As I work on TCoU:B, I felt the story prodding along more and more. Eventually, I reached a point where it was becoming forced, and the pieces just didn’t fit. I wasn’t believing what I wrote, and if I don’t believe it, how can I expect others to? I can’t, you’re exactly right. I had my main characters taking a bus to their next location. A fuckin’ bus. What a lazy move on my part to push the story along. But, it was the only good thing that had come to mind.

I went to start writing today, and I stared at the last paragraph before trying to start a new one. I felt supreme frustration, and instead of punching my computer screen, I held Alt and pressed F4. Closed the fucker right away, and cursed the book. I said, “this shit stain will never get done,” and “fuck this stupid fuckin’ book,” and a whole host of other things. I literally just punched the wall to my left as I wrote this, remembering all the frustrated energy I had stored up. Just now, I slammed my fist on the desk.

I hate frustration. Nothing drives me to the point of no return like frustration. I don’t know how to handle it sometimes, so. Oh fuck this. You don’t wanna hear this shit.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand. I got up to take a shit and rearrange my balls (they’ve been bothering me all fuckin’ day) when inspiration suddenly struck me. I was missing another character. A character that was not only an integral part of the story, but a much needed plot device that would help move things along without cheating the reader. Suddenly, my story found its momentum again.

Fighting writer’s block is a strange thing. It’s like wrestling with something in the dark. It doesn’t feel, smell, or look familiar. All you know is that it’s there and you hate it just as much as it hates you. I picture it as a strange little fucker, laughing and pointing at me, begging me to lash out and strike it. But no matter how many times I try, I can’t hurt it with conventional means.

I’m getting pissed as I type just thinking about that little fuckin’ cunt. Instead, I delete shit. I had six pages of fluffy, reader-insulting mind garbage that I highlighted and deleted from my book. It was like puking up poison and watching it swirl down the toilet; I felt so much better. And the little cunt stopped laughing at me, knowing it was beaten.

So, my story is back on track because I stopped thinking about writing the story, and started thinking about how to move it forward. Writing a novel and moving the story forward are two very different things. Any putz and walk off the street and shove a novel up their ass and sneeze out a shit stained bag of crap on paperback. But it takes a true author (I’m not the only, nor the last one) to move the story along. That’s what works for me. I stop thinking, start acting, and enjoy deleting. And, I’ll have concept art for a new character soon! Yaaaaaay!

How do you deal with writer’s block? Artist’s block? Do you picture it as an entity, or keep it as a metaphor? Speak up motherfuckers, I’m tired of your silence.