You – of course I mean I – find yourself flitting back and forth between e-mail and FB’s Evil Empire and email and LOLCats and email and your bank account and googling lost loves and…you look up at the clock to see that three hours have gone by. You have managed to open the document that holds the title of your new story or poem or memoir, the old writing you’ve come back to. You feel sweaty and a little sick to your stomach. And you cannot move away from the computer screen. The Internet pulls you back again and again. You spiral down and you know how a junkie feels – or an alcoholic – or a lover obsessed with the one who isn’t there.
You remember all the tricks you’ve ever read about sliding past your reluctance to write. They seem just that – tricks. You know your reluctance is based on fear. Maybe you’ve paid big bucks for therapy to get at the root of the fear. Maybe you understand. None of this makes a difference. You’re bleak. You’re furious. You’re stuck.
The gray vortex carries you down. A song drifts through your mind…This is the end, my friend, my only friend. A shiver moves down your spine. Writing has so often been your only friend. Now there is only the chill light of the computer screen. You can’t remember feeling this alone. The song persists…Ride the snake, he’s old, and his skin is cold… You close your eyes and the vortex is a snake, first pale sand, then cloud, then silver. You wrap your arms around its cold skin and
let it carry you.
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