Writer’s block is real, people, as I can attest to this week. I literally have nothing. Or perhaps it would be more apt to say that I have too much going on, but nothing column appropriate. Let’s explore.
Does anyone really want to hear my opinions on Afghanistan, Texas abortion laws or the anti-mask/anti-vax crowd? Those of you who know me as the liberal pot-stirrer probably would, simply for the entertainment value, but honestly, I can’t handle the inevitable hostile feedback. So, no, politics and current events aren’t on the menu.
And I’m certain no one wants to read about my family’s struggle to find closure with Dad’s death, having had to postpone the funeral for an entire year thanks to COVID-19. It’s depressing and expected and hard for me to spin into any form of humorous commentary other than recounting my various emotional breakdowns in a particular McDonald’s drive-thru off I-65.
I could always go down the parenting path of being elated about our current situation of having three-fourths of our chickadees off living their best lives while we focus all our attention on the baby of the brood. She’s not spoiled, I swear! But again, unless you are in a similar boat, our delicious lifestyle will just make you angry.
So, yeah. I’m stuck. Nothing hilarious or horrific happened this week. No one sent me hate mail. My husband Doo, for the most part, behaved himself. The dog is still alive. School is going well. I’m not pregnant, sick, constipated or passionately obsessed with anything at the moment. Writer’s block is real, gosh darn it! Whatever will I do?