How to (Attempt to) Break a 2-Year Writer’s Block: Make a Few Stupid Lists

{About a 2-minute read}

Blogosphere, I hardly recognize you. So much has happened since we last hung out regularly: The Boston Marathon bombing. A royal baby. James Gandolfini, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Robin Williams, Mike Nichols, Maya Angelou, Nelson Mandela—gone. Miley Cyrus humped a wrecking ball, Breaking Bad ended, Sharknado happened, and Kim Kardashian broke the Internet with her ass. I moved: three times, three cities. (Why make it easy?) And you! You look amazing! I love your hair! Have you lost weight?

Which brings us right up to January 2015.

I’m sure a discussion of writer’s block will happen on here at some point, but for now, let’s just do the adult thing (ignore it and hope it goes away) and start here instead: the other day, a friend and I were talking about things that make us happy. For me, it’s always super simple things, like a cup of really delicious coffee or a good song that comes on in the car at the exact moment the sun comes out.

One of the things that used to make me really happy was writing for this blog. Granted, I lived in Paris back then so life was one big adventure, which means the blog posts almost wrote themselves. In French!

Because we should all do more of what makes us happy, I sat down to write a blog post.

Aaaaaanddd … nothing.

Apparently writing about frozen food, the cloud, electronics, and hamburgers does not mean you’re following the Writer’s Golden Rule: Write Every Damn Day. (But I can CTA the shit out of you if you’re into that sort of thing.)

So here’s my plan: I’m going to dip a toe back into my blogging happiness. Keep it light (she said after the previous 275 words), but keep it consistent so that eventually the words will (hopefully) start flowing again.

My “big idea” for breaking writer’s block? {cue jazz hands and spirit fingers} Lists. Ridiculous lists. It’s stupid, I know. But they’re in my head. And guess what? If you’re reading this, now they’re in yours, too. (You’re welcome.) Feel free to add your own additions.

Without further ado I give you, in no particular order:

8 Things It’s Time to Stop Pretending to Like

1. Running: You fucking suck, running. And you hurt. We’re done.

2. Working: Can’t we work out a better method of commerce? Like couldn’t we all just sleep with somebody really hot once a week and get paid for it? And then let’s all meet for coffee and brunch on Tuesday at 11 am. BECAUSE WE CAN.

This would be payment enough.

This would be payment enough.

Or this.

Or this.

3. Sam Smith: I want to like him because he’s super talented and he’s won like every music award possible, but I’ve heard his songs so many times—over and over and over—that they now have the opposite affect on me than was probably intended. I don’t swoon. I get mad. I find myself screaming in my car, “Man the fuck up, Sam Smith!”

Guess it’s true, I’m not good at a one-night stand
But I still need love ’cause I’m just a man
These nights never seem to go to plan
I don’t want you to leave, will you hold my hand?

NO, that girl will NOT hold your hand, Sam Smith. Just sleep with her and don’t call her like a normal guy!

4. Living in New York: Twice I’ve tried this. Twice! I think you’re amazing, New York. To visit, not to live. Your collective concrete-ness does make for an incredible skyline, but I’m just partial to sky, ocean, sand, trees, and homeless people pooping on every corner. All available here in beautiful Northern California. I do miss your delivery, though. I know the whole world disagrees with me, but I don’t care. I’ll love you on my next visit.

5. Cats: As a matter of fact, Jack, I do prefer the emotionally shallow dog. I have to work hard enough for human affection, so I don’t want to work hard with a pet. I might not be able to milk a dog, but I’ll take the sell-out love of one every time.

6. Baby showers/ Wedding showers: Guests of honor, I am genuinely happy for you. For real. I’m happy that you’ve found the love of your lives and I’m happy that you’re procreating. But what if I just sent you a nice gift off your registry and mailed it to your home? Or even better, delivered your gift to you, one on one, over a nice farm-to-table brunch at a civilized hour of 1 pm—instead of, say, coming to watch you, a grown woman—inspect chocolate melted into baby diapers? Or struggle to find a different word for each of the 47 gifts that you’re unwrapping so thoughtfully in front of us?


7. Sleeping late on a weekend: People, have you been to the Alemany Farmers’ Market–or any farmers’ market ever? All the good shit’s gone by 8:30. And don’t even get me started on trying to queue up for a weekend waffle. If you haven’t had it by 9 am, you won’t get it until at least 2:30 pm.

I’ve officially become my parents.

8. Bourbon: I’m an embarrassment to home state of Kentucky. You’re just too brown for me.

I feel better already. What about you? Anything you’re done trying to like?