That lump of coal called creative gifting.

Found in among my email drafts.

A ten pound melon, sopping with juice that wants to be released before it rots. And somehow, I’m missing the knife to carve into its rind and let that goodness flow. I beat my melon against a wall, metaphorical or real, trying to release it. I crave having it set free. I long for it. But a heavy thudding fog hangs over my head. Like I’m missing a specific chemical, or had a certain synapse lobotomized. 

How do we move forward? What can we do when presented with this awful thickening of the sense as we press against the soft, firm wall of whatever stands between us and creative release? 

If only there were a pill for writer’s block. A nice bit of chemistry, patented, drawn up in big vats and fed into gelcaps and plastic bubble and foil packaging. Pop it in your mouth, and up go the gates. We’re off to the races, writing that novel, coding that app, creating that design, planning that world-changing startup. 

Brilliance is always somewhere beyond that choked-up weedy barge of bilking one-liners and how-do-you-does. Caught underneath the weight of a thousand thousand email drafts, tweetery, unmade phonecalls and unwritten bills. Mother help me, I’m a child. Father help me, I need to be grounded. And forget 3 prongs, I need 7.