Ok, I admit it. I've got nothing today. It's one of those days when every sentence becomes a fight-to-the-death struggle with letters and punctuation and ideas. In the end, the white space is hailed as conqueror. I start something - a post I'm supposed to be writing on runaway Mormons for Lis. Two sentences in and it's already a failed piece. Ok, put that in the drawer marked "Brain Hurts. Try Again Later." Next: A long piece I started writing about self esteem in schools. Do a bit of research, track down a couple of links and as soon as my fingers hit the keys, a magnetic force field takes over and I am unable to type a single word. That unfinished piece gets put in the file marked "Unable to Conclude. Come Back Again When You've Had More Sleep." Let's try this: Follow up on the crush on Scott Baio post from last night. Easy to write, doesn't take much thinking, a quick filler until you can get your brain working later on. Except it's not easy to write. I'm stuck in first gear in the fast lane. A thousand other ideas are honking and tailgating, telling the Baio idea to get the hell out of the lane if it's not going to move forward. So I rush the piece, drive like a maniac over the keyboards through places I know where I should stop, crossing white lines and driving the wrong way down one way roads. Screech. Stop. Ride over. Ok, so the car is banged up a bit, but at least the Baio thing didn't go in the unfinished files like the other ones. Frustration sets in. I have plans! I have ideas! I have phrases that would kick Mark Steyn's ass. I just can't put them all together. It's the level of hell known as Writer's Block, the level that Dante himself probably never knew. All he had to do was keep adding levels. He would never run out of ideas as long as numbers still went to infinity. 1,248,474th Circle of Hell: Furries. Ok, switch gears. There's always Command Post. I've got a hundred links here that need to be reviewed, read and put into separate piles: Junk News and Real News. I read through the real news and come across at least five different stories I could write about. An idea for an editorial comes out of nowhere, the proverbial lightbulb going on over my head. Ok, write. Type. Think. Bang head on keyboard as the editorial idea escapes out of brain in the form of a baseball bat, which then smashes the light bulb to pieces. Forget any drawers or files. Throw this idea in the garbage pail. Gone, dead, done. Wonder how other people can not only come up with clever ideas day after day, but illustrate them as well. Drink coffee. Take pills. Drum fingers on desk. Turn off indie station because you cannot live through another Dashboard Confessional song. Load up mp3s. Listen to Tool and suddenly feel all dark and morose. What else is on here? Oh, Type O Negative. There's a mood lifter. Not. Turn off music. Wait by mailbox for Corvids CD. Hey, here's an idea. Went to a wake yesterday where I had to meet and greet my ex-husband's family. Write about the awkwardness, the....nah. Nothing there. It really wasn't awkward at all. I could write about A-Rod being named Captain of the Texas Rangers, but I already talked to Allah about it in email and I couldn't even muster up any snarkiness then. Sigh a few times. Type random words. Just call the day a waste, admit I have writer's block and move on. Watch the Weather Channel, wait for the ice storm and make a mental note to tell the kids to turn their pjs inside out if they want a snow day tomorrow. Wonder why no one is even trying to guess the bloggers I have a crush on. Check stats. Make sure my site hasn't disappeared. Look for self-validation in the form of Sitemeter numbers. Realize how pathetic that is, have pretzels and orange juice for lunch and vow to come up with something better by tonight. And then, just before you're ready to hit "save," do a quick word count and become mortified to learn that you just spent 712 words telling everyone that you have writer's block.