I’m in one of those wild moods I get sometimes, where it feels like I have poetry pressing against the back of my tongue, fluttering along the inside of my ribcage. I feel like if I open my mouth to speak, all that will come out is the loveliest words, like incandescent and resilience. I feel like my veins have been filled with gold. I feel brilliant, half-drunk on words and wonder.
And it is then, with the feeling that I am a master, an artist, an avatar for the divine muses, that I can’t write for the life of me. Everything is stilted, cliche, and dull. I hate every word I type. Ugh.
This is the worst possible kind of writer’s block.