The true, worst kind of Writer’s Block isn’t what you think.
That big, white block, standing clearly in your way as you desperately search for ways around it, over it, through it, away from it. A fierce and persistent critic, cutting down your every idea, pleased with an ever growing pile of crumpled up pieces of paper and unfinished drafts. A thin, invisible film covering your fingers and brain, paralyzing everything you need to create. A massive military resistance, too vast to even begin to plan an attack against.
The real Writer’s Block is none of these things. It’s what you don’t think.
Writer’s Block is something so deadly and devastating, so stomach turning and persistent, so cold, that you don’t even know it’s there. It’s not a mountain of crumpled papers, but a neatly stacked pile, untouched. It’s end of the day, after a full day of work, and turning on Dancing With The Stars because you’re too tired to think. It’s on Thanksgiving, when you’re parents ask you, “So, what have you been up to lately?” and you respond with “Oh you know, the usual.” It’s not noticing you haven’t written anything in weeks. Months. Years. It’s reaching the end of your life as a working professional and realizing, you should have written a novel. It’s not an enemy, it’s apathy. A lack. Not concrete but conditional. Something you can’t fight because you’re not even aware that it’s there. Sapping you. Making you unable.
The only cure, is sudden Consciousness.