So I sliced my finger while dismembering a passionfruit yesterday, and under the painful stinging and profuse bleeding, barely cloaked, mind you, lay a think under layer of gleeful relief.
I mean, how could I possibly type under these dire circumstances, and if I can’t type, I can’t write. It’s as simple as that, an incorruptible fact that has no dubious double meanings or ulterior motives. At least, this is what I have been telling myself for the past two days every time I do a U-turn as my pinkie, even remotely steps towards the vicinity that is housed by my overbearing computer screen. Though this ailment has been inflicting me for the past seven days, long before I nearly mutilated a vital part of my body, that hardly matters – I just promised myself I would be honest on this blog, so full disclosure is a prerequisite, hence I am boring you with the details, if you’ve even bothered to continue reading.
I am, however, rambling. Something I often do when I am trying to cover up a slightly poor aspect of my personality, which, in this event, is a severe case of procrastination syndrome. I find it extremely difficult to distinguish between Writer’s Block and a simple case of blatant, unashamed “bleh”, which some may term as gluttonous laziness, but what I much rather sum up as a “get off my f#%!n ass and write something already, will you?” phase.
I also attempt to avoid thinking about how Writer’s Block is a luxury I never dabble in when I am writing a journalistic piece, because it’s funny how your brain kicks into full gear if the choices are “Writer’s Block” (quotation marks are placed here for ‘yeah right’ sarcastic emphasis), or food on the table tonight. I am Indian, so in the end the stomach always wins, hands down … and I mean always.
Does that mean that I believe that the very notion of Writer’s Block is just another excuse for your undeniable sloth? Before I start getting spammed with hate mail from writers with a very legitimate case of the disease (my condolences by the way), just hold your horses, because the answer is a very convincingly flamboyant no!
It’s just that when I force myself to commence the untangling of the layers that build up my complex personality the way I would shred an onion, I can honestly say that it is unlikely that I am truly inflicted with the pesky disease 364 days a year, because if I am, I really need to start looking for another job.
Does this stab at a soul searching excerpt on my writing endeavours help me to clear my doubts in an effort to commence writing something that can, at least, be construed as a somewhat pitiful example of a sentence by a five year old?
Hell no! This pep talk was for my writing karma. In fact, I think all the unrequired exertion may result in complete bed rest for my index finger for the next week or so, ah the things we writer’s do to put pen on paper, right? I’m off to ice my unfortunate butchered finger … score!