Jacko Says Yes, and I Believe Him

The Wine:
A smoky Malbec from Argentina. Smells like a campfire, tastes like solitude
The Music:
The Guess Who, No Sugar Tonight/New Mother Nature/Hand me Down World

Warning: Writer's Block Ramble dead ahead. Stop reading now if you don't want to hunker down and sweat it out with me, I won't think less of you. For a writer, this is the equivalent of a bad head cold. It's been a week since I wrote anything of note, pieced together thoughts into a cohesive whole. The blank page grows large and accusatory. Random thoughts come and go. I feel at loose ends, cross with my lack of production, lack of creation. My process is disrupted, none of my usual tricks have worked to unlock my thoughts on the page. A thousand ideas just under the surface, not one emerges. My process has always been the same, since I was very young. Music unlocks me, my thoughts, my pen, anything from Beethoven to The Pixies, to tonight's selection, The Guess Who.

"Don't give me down no hand-me-down shoes, Don't give me no hand-me-down love, Don't give me no hand-me-down world..."

The music plays, under my fingers or in my head or my stereo, and I start to zero in. One song emerges, I play it on loop and enter the zone. I don't subject anyone else to the process, the creative process would drive a companion crazy, one song playing over, everything falling away except the melody, the pen, and the thoughts start to arrange themselves in my mind. I start mumbling, talking to myself, looking a little touched to others. Words roll around in my mouth, I start hearing sentences. They order themselves, one lead sentence emerges and I know what the piece will be about, my theme emerges. Once I've got my lead sentence, I'm home free. Oh, there is still the matter of wrestling it to the page. The music I am listening to knows what I am thinking before I do.

"In the silence...of her mind...quiet movements I can find...grabbin' for me, with her eyes...now I've fallen...from her skies..."

This week, nothing. No dreams. No writing. No sentences. Silence. Excruciating. This is why writers drink. Back on the horse. Mechanical writing. Maintenance writing. Writing you look at and try to love. No heat. Showing up to the page anyway. Walking through a desert alone. No sugar tonight.