writers block

It creeps up inside me like constipation. Nothing moving. Nothing releasing. Just sitting inside me and festering. All these ideas, muddled together, with no clarity, no direction. They creep along inside my brain looking to be released in a lovely, litereary flow. I look outside for inspiration and see the morning light on the trees, so lovely-but wait!! i have already written about morning on Clinton street. Hmm... back to the ol proverbial drawing board.

Coffee and a shower. That should do it. Hot water flowing inside and out. Should loosen something up. Thats it! Thats the plan. Wash out the mildew and start afresh! I pat myself on the back and prepare for the rituals. Coffee first. Of course.
And after? Hopefully a brilliant, well crafted piece of prose about my recent trip to North Carolina and my newfound obsession with the south.