Sabbatical

I've ridden this wave of creativity about as far as it will go for the moment. I have no idea how actual writers do it. I was on a roll, there, for a while. But past a certain point, in the midst of your delirious scribbling, you begin to fear the writer's block you know is lurking just around the corner, and the fear of writer's block turns into writer's block. In your efforts to stave it off, you develop the superstitious quirks of a Big League knuckleballer: leaving your shoes untied, opening doors with the pinkie finger of your left hand, wearing the same chalkstained suit coat for weeks on end, crossing your chopsticks in an X over the rice bowl, and so on. But the writer's block arrives right on time no matter how schizophrenic you become and the only thing to do at that point is shut the whole thing down for a while, read some new authors, get out of the house, stay out late and get yourself in trouble, and return to your desk after a week or two when you've stopped thinking so damned much.