Oh writer’s block, thy name is doubt
Because of how you scream and shout,
And try to keep me from success
By magnifying my distress.
I hate you, scurvy writer’s block,
Because you tick tock like a clock,
Reminding me I can’t have fun
Until my editing is done.
“You have revised the thousandth time,
But it is not enough,” you chime.
Then, like a slave, I bend my back
Beneath the weight of this huge stack
I’ve edited for several years.
But still you holler in my ears,
“You’re ten miles from the finish line!”
You make me wish that prize was mine!
Then you remind me with a grin
That more plot holes must be filled in.
“Each time I check your manuscript,
I see where somebody might trip
Upon an inconsistency.”
I hate the way you mock at me
And give me zero breath to pause
As I repair the grammar flaws
I accidentally broke because
I lacked the patience to re-read
Those passages I fixed with speed.
But such errors have been unearthed
Since then, I wonder how I birthed
A book so riddled with mistakes.
They rose like bubbles in pancakes.
How did this work I can’t ignore
Turn into such a grueling chore?
And now I can’t see past this block,
Which ticks like Granddad’s booming clock,
Whose second hand I can’t ignore.
It asks me who my novel’s for.
“How will you market? Will it sell?
Most books these days do not sell well
Unless you hand them out for free,
But that won’t bring prosperity.”
Oh, writer’s block, thy name is Doubt.
For you don’t know what I’m about,
But question if I have the clout
To use my writings to cast out
The demons that attack my voice.
So then, you’ve given me no choice
But to throw out your losing dice,
Though it may be a sacrifice.
By grace I’ll tap into God’s heart,
Through faith take part in joyful art,
And always point to God above,
Who reaches out to us in love.