I have suffered greatly because of an assumption, stupid as it may sound when I write it down, that I should be somehow writing all the time. I have visualized other writers in their garrets, bachelors and spinsters who have sacrificed their lives to their art, writing day and night, producing reams and reams that make them famous, if not rich.  I have flagellated myself for not being more like them, for not being more disciplined, for wasting time, for spending any of it away from my desk. For years this tug of war made me an insomniac. I would not let myself rest or sleep in peace, I would not let myself be. Anything other than writing was a waste of time.  I felt the tug of the hook in my mouth any time I was away from the desk. All in all, I would have to admit that I have expended more time on regret than on writing. 
When I look back at the onset of my Big Block, I think I could have avoided it by resting. But I was too blind to see that the block was my body’s way of saying it needed rest, relaxation, simply being. The little grey cells were crying for respite as well. There are times in life, momentous times when the best thing to do is be still. This stillness works the way no amount of struggle does. It is fruitful and healing. If I had done this I may have bypassed The Block. 


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