Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time sitting at my desk, scrolling through thesuperficial.com when I’m supposed to be working. It’s a disgusting, mean-spirited, celebrity gossip website, but it’s pretty damn funny, and also highly addictive. Normally, I would not have precious working minutes to spare on a time suck like this, but I’ve had an atrocious case of writer’s block for the last several months, and looking at pictures of Heidi Montag’s cellulite and Kim Kardashian’s butt sure beats staring at a blank screen all day.
This being my first experience with writer’s block, I have, in the past, taken a rather skeptical view of the whole thing. I tended to see it as kind of a vague, b.s. excuse for people who don’t really work to continue not working. I mean, just the term “writer’s block” has such a fake, artsy ring to it. Like, I picture a guy in a black turtleneck pulling on his long, shaggy hair, all full of pain and angst over how ‘blocked” he is, when really he’s just a lazy guy in bad need of a haircut, who should just accept the fact that where he really belongs is at Starbucks, serving coffee to writers who actually have something to say. But oh, how my view has changed. To all of you writers in black turtlenecks, I sincerely apologize.
I have been on page 159 of my book since about the middle of November. The story is about two sisters living in LA, who don’t really get along that well. One is a casting agent for a soap opera, who is engaged to an up and coming