Someone asked me the other day if I ever suffered from writer’s block. An image of a giant concrete-style brick made up of contemporary writers immediately entered my mind. The picture panned out to reveal an entire building, and eventually a city block, full of middle-aged men seated at typewriters. This idea was replaced by a team of security guards in a riot-like situation; anytime a member of the mob made a move towards a pencil the bouncers would enter with force. The starting blocks of a hundred metre track then took centre stage. A young Franz Kafka started strong while the burley Bram Stoker pushed compatriot Oscar Wilde to the ground. Fyodor Dostoyevsky made a surprising push but it was Ernest Hemmingway’s late move that assured him victory.
I guess my lack of output is rarely caused by limited ideas; it’s me being lazy.
I guess my lack of output is rarely caused by limited ideas; it’s me being lazy.