This past week I’ve been experiencing writer’s block, which I never really comprehended as a condition. I sure do now! This will be helpful in practicing compassion for those who suffer from it. Sometimes I need to walk and walk in someone’s stinky shoes for a long time before that soaks in.

I developed empathy for those who fear roller coasters by having one single, random, harrowing experience on the “Top Gun” ride at Great America in the 90s. I discovered that when I am really really scared, I make a totally ineffectual squeaking noise.

I also developed empathy for those with stage fright. A vast majority of the time on stage I am shamelessly strutting and soaking in the spotlight. Then every once in a long while, the cold clammies come on, complete with tunnel vision and thoughts of “this is a dream, right?”  So cliche, yet so terrifying.

By the way, brain? You don’t have trouble writing now, do you? But when I’ve tried to point you at this article, when the deadline loomed like a funnel cloud, you shut down. Traitor.

Yesterday was the worst bit. Imagine the most boring movie montage: Becky, opening her laptop and Word, business as usual, then going stock still. Becky, getting all the other work done, then going back to the Word document. Staring. Swearing. Going for a walk. Canceling the evening’s commitments. Staring. Burning pain in the stomach as “friendly” reminder emails come in. Staring. Frozen yogurt!

At some point in the wee hours I managed with lead-filled fingers to get something word-like down on the page. In the light of today, the article doesn’t sound like me at all. It’s an piece about improv, but there’s little humor nor lightness of tone. I wrestled with it as best I could then sent it off this morning, a solid “C” effort.

And it did feel a lot like my high school days, speaking of grades. For a long time I did not apply myself and saw a lot of “C”s which compelled me to try even less. It was a self-hating, self-perpetuating cycle, made extra toxic by my truly troubling skills at denial and procrastination. (Yes, I went to Berkeley, why do you ask?)

But now I’m an adult, and a pretty good one. I honor commitments and promises. I try hard. The only things I’m consciously procrastinating about are my taxes. Yet here I was, feeling 15 again, so mad at myself. But unable to do it. Scary. I don’t want that to happen again.

“Block” is a good word because obviously the block has been pushed out and now I can’t stop writing. Insert bowel joke here. Okay. We’re done.