Some People Call Me a Space Cowboy: Writer's Block and Other Disasters

Most of life is rush, rush, rush.
                        Work, work, work.
        Bitch, bitch, bitch.
With some periodic breaks for sleep, sleep, sleep, and, if you're lucky:
                                          Laugh, laugh, laugh and love, love, love.




Here's the rub: you can't live like that. Living like that is a recipe for insanity.

I've been struggling with a shit ton of writer's block lately. Hence the existential angst. Do you write? Have you suffered from writer's block? Are you engaged in other artsy-fartsy-type creative endeavors? Can you relate to the Writer's Block?

I'd love to start a conversation about this. Who the fuck do we creative types think we are, getting all angsty about having to live real life without a creative outlet? Are we really so special that we have to invent crazy-ass syndromes all for ourselves? Or is the creative mind just a bit, oh, let's say, unique (read: insane) and thus really does need a creative outlet?

Talk to me! Leave a comment and tell me how you've worked through your own creative constipation! Or, if you think writers are full of shit when we talk about writer's block, or struggle with our muse, tell me that! I won't bite!

And follow me on twitter!