The Postaday challenge that I unofficially signed up for on January 1st is kicking my butt right now. I’ve managed to post a blog everyday for 109 days.  Some good, some awful.  I fear I’m boring my readers to tears with chicken antics and doggy drivel.

Do I credit writers block?? No, I don’t think that’s what it is at all. I contribute it to a lack of time.  Time to think.  Time to sit and reflect.  Time to be me.

Each day my blogging is becoming harder and harder. 

I recently read an excerpt from a story in the New Yorker about writer’s block.  It was entitled A Cure for Blocked Screenwriters and it told of a writer who had a case of writer’s block.  After a year and a half of producing nothing, he went to visit a therapist named Barry Michels.  The therapist gave him some advice:

Michels also told the writer to get an egg timer. Following Michels’s instructions, every day he set it for one minute, knelt in front of his computer in a posture of prayer, and begged the universe to help him write the worst sentence ever written. When the timer dinged, he would start typing. He told Michels that the exercise was stupid, pointless, and embarrassing, and it didn’t work. Michels told him to keep doing it.

Well of course you probably know how the story ends.  In no time, this writer had a script written and a movie being filmed.

I haven’t ever set an egg timer, but I do pray.  Not to the universe, but to a real, living God who hears me.  I ask him to help me write words that are meaningful, that glorify Him, that will touch other’s lives.  And after I hit publish on each blog, I try to remember to send up a very feeble thank you. 
I tell you all this because what I really want to say, without sounding whiney, is that I’m struggling.  Life has me beat right now.  I’m sitting in my corner of the boxing ring gasping for air, blood is running down from the cut above my eye, my opponent named Life is pumped up in his corner opposite me, hopping around.  He can’t even sit still.  The last round was his.  My trainer is squirting water in my mouth, towelling the sweat off my shoulders, and telling me to lead with my left, to keep my hands up.   Except all I desire to do is crawl through the ropes of the ring and leave the fight.  Forfeit.  The only reason I don’t is because of the crowd.  I don’t want to be booed.  
I want to quit blogging and I don’t want to quit blogging.   If that makes any sense at all. Writing gives me peace and joy and I really, really love it.  But it is the last thing I do each day.  Which sometimes, in my tired state, can feel like drudgery.  It’s last not because I want it to be, but because so many other responsibilities take precedence.  Except God.  He actually is coming completely last in my day.  I have it all mixed up I know.  And I know how to fix it as well.  But I need some help.  If you pray at all, would you say one for me tonight?  Would you ask for help with my fight? 
My time out is over.  The bell is sounding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding.  The next round is beginning.  So I will rise from my seat, jump around a couple of times, walk to the center of the ring, and touch gloves with Life.
I may not come out the Champ, but at least I’ll come out.  
You can read more of the New Yorker story mentioned above, below: