by Megan Kiger
So, I’d call myself a liar.
Used-to-be outstanding liar, but maybe just above average now. My intentions are never anything more than comedic (or dramatic) relief. We all love drama, and we all lie about that too.
When I was little, I’d come up with intricate stories to cover my ass when I was in trouble or embarrassed (or just to make things interesting, you know?). I had a crush on a boy named Zach when I was ten. He had this ashy kind of blond hair and green eyes that I was obsessed with. I asked him if he wanted to swing with me at recess and he said no. He actually pretty rudely refused and laughed at me with his friends. I remember my throat swelling while I tried to keep the hysterics contained to my stomach.
by Mick Bratton
Writers have a tendency to conjure up the familiar term “writer’s block” as an excuse for not being able to produce content. The spewing of this writerly phenomenon, infamously treated as a common illness, is simply an excuse to not write at all—and it’s probably subconscious. We base our day-to-day lives around the world in which we experience life with our senses—our truths—and so it can be very believable that a blockage has been formed when there’s just a lack of motivation and inspiration. We need any liable subject to blame rather than owning up to our own actions. To blatantly dissect this disillusioned label and pluck it out of the book of excuses: writer’s block is a choice that has made its imprint on the world and has been alive and breathing for far longer than it should have.
by Ann Caputo
As a writer, I realize the obnoxious phenomenon known as “writer’s block” is part of the craft, a peril of the trade. But why does it settle in at the most inconvenient time, like when I need to begin writing nearly anything? There is nothing so daunting as the blank page and a looming deadline. It took me awhile to realize that my pets hold more power in alleviating this condition then I first believed.
by Joe Gramigna
Discipline is hard. I’ve tried many times to reinvent myself via practices that I planned to follow diligently. The first few weeks, everything’s peachy. The 5 a.m. gym sessions get my blood flowing. The kale and green concoctions don’t yet taste like bug spray and depression. The lavender incense lightly laps against my nostrils to center a newfound meditation routine.