Is this what writer's block is? The nagging, the horrible feeling of wanting to say something but being completely unable because a bandit of robbers came in the night and stole all your funny? I don't really think of myself as a writer, but I know for certain that this is a block. A wall. A space in time. My own personal Mt. Everest. Will I ever reach the top? Is there really a bright side? Will the funny ever come back and what in the world do I do in the meantime?
WANTED: THE FUNNY
One bag of tricks, two sleeves with
something up them, a funny bone, a
ticklish spot, one knee-slapping
good time to come and rescue
middle-aged housewife comepletely
DEVOID of the funny. Will pay
handomsely in chuckles and gaffaws once
funny is found, unhurt, and in tack.