Writer’s Block? Blame It On Trump!

I sat down to write and waited for my muse to speak. But, all she said was “Trump!”

Eye twitches.

I tried to calm myself by meditating: ohm, ohm… Oh, my God, Trump!

Throat constricts.

I tried taking a walk to get inspired: Birds, trees, stumps… Trump!

Brain freezes.

“I’ve got nothing,” I said. “Any thoughts?” I asked Myself, usually a very good listener and purveyor of good advice.

But she wasn’t helpful this time. “I don’t know,” Myself said introspectively. “Maybe write something about Trump.”

“That’s depressing,” I grumbled. “Thinking about Trump makes me grumpy, or dare I say, Trumpy. You know I haven’t written anything in months because of Trump.”

Myself sighed. She knew that Trump’s bigoted, unhinged comments stifled my creativity, and provoked me to yell at inanimate objects like the shoe I just tripped over.

“What the hell, shoe!” I yelled. “Are you trying to kill me?”

The shoe offered a laced up rebuke. “You left me here,” it said. “… abandoned me like all the ideas you’ve scribbled on torn pages in your notebook. This one’s on you, missy!”

“But, but?”

But, there would be no more buts. The shoe was right — literally.

I had no business yelling at anything and went on an apology tour to all the inanimate objects in my house.

After I was forgiven by the furniture, I returned to my computer. I was determined not to let myself get Trumped and rant in run-on sentences with protruding cartoon eyes. It upsets my desktop who stares at me blankly, sputtering nonsensical words across an anemic-looking page.

“Damn it!” I screamed. “Write something smart!”

At which point the sidearm of my chair slapped my wrist and said, “Stop choking the monitor!”

“My God. I’m a monster!” I unclenched the computer and wiped my fingerprints from the screen.

“Sorry computer. This anger thing is so Trump-like deranged and scary pervasive. I need to get a grip, without getting a grip on you. I need to use my hands for good, instead of evil.”

“The power of Christ compels you to purge the beast and write,” chants the priest from The Exorcist who appears as a misty reminder of remiss.

“But what should I write about?” I asked the imaginary priest. “Puppies or politics?”

“I love puppies but their cuteness puts me in a puppy-induced coma.

“I love politics but it evokes images of a giant orange burrito spewing guacamole on my TV screen.”

“You need a Trumpectomy!” The priest advised me. “You need to purge your head of Trump and guacamole. Only then, will you be able to write again. Also, you’ve got to quit the puppies!”

I should listen to the voices in my head more often, I told Myself.

“Well said,” she said. “Just don’t respond to them in public!” then added. “It is time to hear what the muse has to say,” which was nothing. The muse had already gone but left a note.

“Went out for a walk. Be back soon!”

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