There are several things that I absolutely disdain in this world-- leaving the butter out of the fridge, eyebrows that look like they've been filled in with mascara instead of eye shadow, and days when it feels like the Arctic Tundra in the morning and the Sahara Desert in the afternoon-- just to name a few. But there is nothing, and I don't think I can say this enough, NOTHING I hate more on this god-forsaken planet than (you guessed it) writers block.

I must admit that I am rather blessed by the writing gods, I only get a really bad bought of it every few months, but oh, when it rains, it pours. How do I deal with it, you ask? Well, you see, I don't. But rather than try to explain myself, (which I am unfortunately unable to do right now) I'll let my friends in the wizarding world have a crack at it.

So, here I am, just minding my own business, having a laugh with the characters of whatever book I may be writing at the time. Things are great, life is good! I'm on top of the world!

But, then... all of the sudden...

Writers Block comes in to deprive me of all happiness.

It feels like:

But, the worst part is that I'm helpless to it, like a candle in the wind.

And the writing gods are just sitting there, waiting to see me fail.

But to them, I say:

And I sit down to write, thinking haters are just hating. I'm going to put words to paper and it's going to be great. Everyone will love me just as much as they loved Gideroy Lockheart.

But that hope soon turns into self hate. Everyone does not love me. I don't even love me.

I'm resilient though! All I have to do is try harder! I need to pull my boot straps up and just do it.

To bad my mind literally looks like this:

The writing that is produced during this period is literal garbage and I'm sitting there, reading it like:

So I tweak it and... it somehow got worse?

It's time to really face the facts.

My name is Brooke Johnson and I have Writers Block.

For the next week, I feel like everything I write is either ridiculous,

Or just plain boring.

Why did I think I could ever do this in such a state? I've ruined my book!

My soul is broken.

There's no way out.

But then my tragic news reaches the logical side of my brain.

And he looks me right in the face and:

"Quit being stupid and go write."

"But, I'm horrible! It's worthless! I'm worthless!" I plead only to have him get right up in my face.

For some reason or another, this makes me more determined than ever.

And somewhere throughout locating my determination to carry on, I find it:

Inspiration.

It's time to celebrate.

Crowds cheer:

My friends get excited because my dismal moods are gone for a few weeks.

I even get a pat on the back out of nowhere. (For all the hard work I'm doing)

I even make the logic proud.

Chains no longer bind me! I'm free!

But the Writing Gods giggle at my happiness-- at my hope that this has passed:

And I just look at them and:

I've got writing to do.