Writer’s block smells of vanilla. At least, that is what I was able to gather after breaking open the bar of Whiskey River’s Writer’s Block soap that I was given for Christmas. It was a layered concoction that was half Tiffany blue and half a shade of purplebrown that defies even my color recognition. When moistened, it was impressivly silky in texture. By the time I finished showering, I felt like I’d bathed in butter cream frosting.

It had no measurable effect on my inspiration.

I mean, it’s a bar of soap, after all. In point of fact, it’s a clever label: the soap itself was always just a pretext for commerce: something to be bought and sold and given and received, not because of it’s own merits, but because of its clever packaging. And in this it is so absurdly successful that I can’t help but marvel at the cleverness of it all.

But I still have a bar of soap so cloyingly sweet that I can’t use it.

And it didn’t help me solve the story problems of the chapter that I was working on.

So I did the next best thing: I put it down for a day, read a little bit, watched the last episode of “The Vietnam War” and generally put it out of my mind. And when I picked it up again, I focused on a different part of the plot. It worked. I picked a chapter at random and just started trying to fill in the gaps and made some unexpected progress, which was a relief. At least I’m still moving forward.

And at least I don’t smell like frosting anymore.

~ by Gwydhar Gebien on January 30, 2018.

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