Is it possible to write about writer’s block? It seems that would be like talking about silence. I’m reminded of that great Steve Martin quote “Talking about music is like dancing about architecture.” I suppose I’m less suffering from writer’s block than I am stuck under a general malaise of late. It seems all my free time is spent trying find a better job, wrestling with the mechanics of returning to school (hoping desperately that the lack of discipline that soiled my last effort has passed like a bad case of the clap) and trying to come to the ultimate decision if moving back home was a brilliant strategic move, or the worst idea since Greedo shooting first.

Yet, here I sit, deeply needing to write something, and having nothing to write. My thoughts go to the great works about writer’s block: Throw Momma from the Train, 8 ½, Adaptation, and my all-time favorite Barton Fink. If anyone can write a kick-ass movie about writer’s block it’s the Coen Brothers. Barton Fink also happens to be about a bit of advice Ian Fleming gave to aspiring writers “If you have a book that just isn’t getting written, get a hotel room and a bottle of whiskey and don’t come out until you’ve done it.” Funny part is, he never specified what “it “ was, finishing the book or the whiskey.

I suppose I could write about my recent obsession with funny names. Rather, my interest in people whose names fit too perfectly with what they do. The really interesting part is that names like Baker, Jagger, Smith and Hooper were, in their origins, respective to a family’s trade (to save you the Google search, hoopers make barrels and jaggers sell fish). When I called last week to have the windshield in my car replaced because of the cracks and chips, I find out the guy that owns and operates Auto Glass Experts is named Rocky. The guy that oversees my employee 401K and the company’s stock portfolio is name Tom Risky. The guy that rolls his wheelchair downtown all day, back and forth, shaking people’s hands and blessing everyone is named Jack Legg. There’s a woman in Portland with a prostitution rap sheet a mile long named Oralia Cash. This stuff just sticks with me.

Also, perhaps worth mentioning is that charges have been dropped against the New York man that broke into a barn and spray-painted orange the testicles of three of the farmer’s goats. Conspicuously, the article omits why the man vandalized the poor farmer’s goats, but I think a safe bet would be that he was battling with writer’s block and, perhaps, alcohol. Just try and tell me you don’t feel the urge to vandalize animal genitalia after a few cold ones.

I imagine writer’s block is a scary proposition to those who depend on their words for a living, so in that small way, I can be thankful I’m not currently living my dream of writing for a living. On the other hand, if I didn’t have to spend six hours a day on the phone being berated by people with third grade educations yelling at me about “what y’all issurance gonn pay!” then perhaps I wouldn’t be suffering from stress-induced writer’s block.

The funny thing about writer’s block is it’s so specific. Have you ever heard of filmmaker’s block? They call that writer’s block. Painter’s block? Painters aren’t real artists anyway. Wheel-worker’s block? That’s just silly.

Creativity is a tricky thing: inspiration can be here one day, and just vanish the next. An idea for a story may pop into your head while you’re in the shower, and if you don’t scratch a few notes into your stomach with that razor, you may never remember it again. Of course, now I have the work “chicken-monkey” carved into my body and I can’t remember what it’s supposed to mean. No more booze in the morning, seriously.

I guess all I can say is that inspiration is fleeting, so take advantage of when it arrives, be it a picture in your mind you just have to put on canvas, or that Batman symbol you have some strange desire to burn into your front lawn with weed killer. Perhaps it’s the three sets of orange-colored goat testicles that haunt your every waking moment. Be creative, it feels good and makes you feel like you’ve accomplished something (even when, clearly, you haven’t). They call it catharsis; I call it being drunk.