Re-post: Writer’s block and watering the fertilizer

I got this idea from Austin, the Modern Philosopher.  He posted his very first blog to celebrate his first anniversary blogging.  

Why did I choose the particular topic below?   2 reasons:

1. It was the first time I revealed something potentially creepy about my not-quite-right existence. 
2. The creeping crud causing my laryngitis won’t go away, my mind doesn’t want to think, so I’m being lazy.

However,  I added a couple of small edits and a picture.  Or 2.

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My brain:
The brown dry shriveled up grass invading the lawn of life

Writer’s block and watering the fertilizer
— November 19, 2012 by floridaborne

Have you ever had those weird dreams where you’re half awake and say, “What the hell does that mean?” Well, I had one of those last night.

“Faith waters the seeds of the fertile mind,” came the answer in a deep male voice out of nowhere. It frightened the crap out of me, and I’m not horsing around about it—or maybe I was. You decide. It was enough to make me reach for the homemade whole wheat banana muffin, piling the top of it generously with peanut butter.

The not-quite-right horse

What was I dreaming about that would elicit such a dreadful dietary choice, you might ask? Do you really want to know? My job, which I was taking quite seriously in the dream, was giving horses enemas.

You can’t get much deeper into fertilizer than that.

In the end (excuse the pun, or don’t) I was taking my job quite seriously, hoping the boss didn’t see I wasn’t cleaning the bag or the tube with alcohol between administrations.

And I hadn’t even taken Nyquil the night before to get to sleep.

This comes after wading through the unforgiving desert of writer’s block. In essence, faith may water the seeds of the fertile mind, but when the seeds won’t sprout what you have left is wet, stinky crap.

What does one do when plagued by the unthinkable? I have a “scrap” file where I place copious amounts of data. Rarely do I retrieve data from this electronic file 13, but there have been times it has been useful. I can get rid of the crap and trick my mind into thinking I haven’t thrown away that dingleberry of thought I believed at the time was nothing short of a black diamond. 

The most useful purpose of this compost pile of data is to be able to go back, read it over and say, “What was I thinking when I wrote that crap?” It helps provide closure.

Like finding your cat pancaked on the road after searching for a week, some things are better off buried than rediscovered.