Poor Biff’s Almanac — Special Writer’s Block Edition

Poor Biff's Almanac Graphic (Colored) #1

It is a quiet evening around the ol’ humble abode (or, HA-1, as I call it sometimes).  The only sound is that of the poor air conditioner trying unsuccessfully to keep HA-1 on the upper end of comfortable.

The cat has given up and retired to her tower to scowl at the world.  And why shouldn’t she?  What has the world ever done for her?  Except give her free luxury accommodations, a fully paid health plan, all the food she can eat, and a crack team of servants to do her every bidding.  Of course she is bitter.  Who wouldn’t be?

I’ve got a little music going on the ol’ laptop (or LT-1, as I sometimes call it).  The TV is off.  There are no distractions.

There is absolutely nothing keeping me from writing.

Except, of course, that I have absolutely nothing to write about.  The part of my brain that is responsible for writing packed its bags earlier and left, leaving no forwarding address.

So what’s a poor writer to do when the will to write has left one high and dry?

Well, you just read it.

 

9 comments

  1. Bibibibibibibibibibibibibibibibiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiif!

    Brother where art thou?? Did the cat catch your fingers?? Did you melt under the Texas sun?? Have you been abducted by aliens?? Are you on strike?? Gone bowling?? Gone fishing?? At the hairdresser?? Out groceries shopping??

    What’s going on??????? Please don’t let me go insane! (Oh, wait, I was already crazy – but that’s no reason not to come back!!)

    I miss you… *sob*

    *Hugs*

    Liked by 1 person

    • Hi Sis! Sorry about going silent. I was busy moving the daughter across country. It was fun, but I’m sure glad it’s over!

      Thank you for being concerned and for missing me. 🙂 Next time I’ll let you know when I’m going to be absent for awhile.

      (And no, you’re not going crazy(er)! Ha ha!)

      Like

  2. Me on writer’s block: Copied from The Drabble: Easy Rider by Pat Brunson
    IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT, or perhaps it wasn’t, but I needed to start some place. Tired of the blank screen mocking me to no end. “Look who thinks he’s a writer.” Staring at me. “Is that your third cup?” I crack my knuckles to limber my fingers. “Checking email?” THEY RODE OFF INTO THE SUNSET. THE END. I push spell check again. Now to fill in the middle with 85,000 words, presto, a novel. The is so damn easy.

    Like

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