A WRITER'S JUDGE AND JURY

I've got this ball-point in my hand. It is filled with fluid ink. The pen commands me to think. Its virgin point waits for me to make a point, in a creative rage to fill this page with words only my mind can find in the recesses of my soul. I am flattered that my gray matter permits me to spread random thoughts in my head to paper where they might be read.

My fingers linger on my pen and now and then when I start to compose those gems, of priceless prose the voice inside my head shouts out, "WAIT! You're not ready to create. Inspiration must precede creation." There's a pause. Faintly, I hear my mentality debating as I sit waiting, hesitating, then the silent pause ends in a roaring, outpouring mad applause. Above the noise I hear that voice cry out and I rejoice: "THE TIME IS NOW!
CREATE! CREATE!"

In the dark of night I see a spark and then a blinding light, I touch my pen to paper. There is a rousing cheer. The audience is tense as I commence. I write the first immortal word: "The." And then my mind goes blank. What is happening to me? Why don't the words flow freely? A man in the crowd shouts out loud: "GO! GO! GO!" The mass picks up the chant. "GO! GO! GO!"

"I CAN'T! I CAN'T!" I cry. My writing hand trembles as I seek to assemble words profound. The sound of cheers is replaced by jeers pounding in my ears. It appears my worst fears have been realized. I am in shock. OH, MY GOD! WRITER'S BLOCK HAS SILENCED ME.

My adoring, roaring crowd abandon me. They command that I create. I cannot. They wave my past best sellers in the air. Then, in a sudden rage with blinding speed, page by page, they tear them free and a mountain high of poems I wrote that millions quote reverently, my fiction and my commentary, words that brought fame to my name flare in incendiary fury. My loyal, once dedicated public has become my judge and jury.