This post is an extended reply to another post, On Writer’s Block and Open Salon, in which m.a.h. beautifully chronicles her eight-year effort to avoid writing at all costs.  On the generally reliable premise that misery loves company, I thought I’d share my own story, though following hers, I understand a bit how Joe Biden must feel when he has to go on after Barack Obama (don’t mean to put too much pressure on you here, m.a.h.:) ).

One evening this past June, I sat down at my keyboard and decided, out of the blue, that I was going to start writing a novel, a rather lofty goal, I confess, for somebody who hasn’t written a word in more than ten years, except the tersest of emails, and even those I’ve been known to agonize over.

During my last productive phase, back in 1997, I sent something I’d written to Garrison Keillor and, to my astonishment, he wrote back, saying that he liked my humor.  An electronic courtship of sorts ensued and, for a few giddy months, on the weekly broadcast of A Prairie Home Companion, I enjoyed the thrilling sensation of hearing my words coming out over the airwaves in that voice.  Then the APHC producer decided to invite me to Minnesota to meet Garrison in person, and see up close how the show worked.  The idea, I guess, was that Garrison and I would get together and crank out material, sort of like Buddy and Sally on the old Dick Van Dyke show, or at least that was my fantasy.    

You don’t know writer’s block until you’ve sat in a small room with a great man and tried to come up with snappy dialogue for a Guy Noir skit.  I felt like a tiny asteroid sucked into the orbit of a massive lowering planet, and my mind simply froze.  All I kept thinking about was whether I had remembered to put on deodorant that morning.  

It was like one of those really, really awful blind dates.  My laptop couldn’t transmit to his laptop.  My joke about Lutherans fell flat.  Even my outfit, which I’d purchased just for the occasion, was all wrong – way too dressy.  Worst of all, I couldn’t write worth a damn.

Garrison Keillor is a consummate professional and I, sad to say at that critical juncture in my career, was not.  Later that night, after the show, there was a cast gathering in a local hotel room to watch some basketball finals.  Garrison was there with his wife, and he spoke to me only in passing.  At one point our eyes did meet for a few long seconds.  As you might expect, Garrison Keillor is a keen observer of people, and he has a very penetrating stare.  Maybe it was paranoia on my part, but I felt as if he’d peered into the depths of my soul, taken a quick inventory, and decided that he wasn’t particularly impressed.

I submitted a few more scripts, but the spell was broken and the acceptances dropped off.  Not long after that, I simply stopped writing altogether. 

Trying to write a novel in my present condition is like trying to run the Boston Marathon after you’ve spent ten years on the couch watching Nick-at-Night reruns and eating Twinkies.  I’ll spare you the gory details.

Thank god Sarah Palin came along to put me out of my misery.  She was so appalling, I forgot all about my own demons, and just started writing.  Like m.a.h., I took the plunge here at OS without testing the waters in advance.  Good thing; I would have been too intimidated.  Libertarius -- who must be a fellow Luddite, since it appears that neither one of us can figure out how to post a head shot – wrote something nice about my first post and, since Libertarius is a person of impressive intellect, I was extremely gratified.  It’s amazing what a little encouragement can do. 

What is this little voice inside that beckons some of us to write, despite the misery it often brings us?  You can try to drown the voice out, but only for so long, it seems.  Fear of writing, I’ve decided, boils down to fear of drawing upon one’s innermost reserves and coming up empty.  Sometimes doing nothing seems like a safer alternative.

When I was about five or six, my mother took me to see a performance of The Nutcracker, and after that, I decided that I wanted to be a ballerina.  So mom, always a good sport, signed me up for classes.  I was so disappointed that first day.  I wanted to wear a pink tutu and pirouette across the floor; instead all I got was a black leotard and sore calves from a bunch of boring drills.  I never went back. 

So here I am at age 53, still wanting that pink tutu, without all the misery in between.  Start small, I keep telling myself, accept setbacks.  Don't be discouraged by failure.  Don't give up. And, most critical of all, practice, practice, practice.

Or, as Sarah Palin might put it, drill, baby, drill.