Thursday, March 10, 2005

Whenever you hear about writer’s block, it’s often described as an insurmountable force turned surmountable in a few days. People complain about it, fondly curse its name, and hours later they emerge triumphant, happy yet vaguely aware it will strike again. Well, they’re wrong. It’s not a wraith, a dark genie who thwarts your every wish. It’s a place.

Writer’s Block used to be the gold coast of Antiquity City. Muse had a few friends there, and she would always scoff at their addresses.

“Writer’s ‘Bl.’?” she would say, rolling her eyes. “Why can’t they write out ‘Block’? Is it really so hard?”

“You know, it almost looks like the abbreviation of ‘boulevard,’ only without the ‘vd,’” I once observed.

“VD, huh?” she replied with a saucy look. “Figures you’d be the one to think about that.”

“Hey, hey, cut me some slack,” I retorted. “Sounds like someone’s crabby today.”

“Listen, smartass, you just exceeded your pun quota by one,” she snapped right back.

That was one of my fonder memories of the Block. Even the Muffin Man lived there, if you can believe it, though he left with the rest of the urbanites when it suddenly became chic to skip town. That’s how he ended up on Drury Lane.

Things are different these days. The Block, much like the City, is a little sadder, a lot emptier, but still necessary. Everyone visits. Everyone must visit, because this is where the Auditor lives. You’d think an ominous name like that would only promise terrifying experiences, when really they’re only mildly terrifying. Muse and I went to see him recently. We boarded a train under a darkening sky, wincing as the sliding doors snapped shut. We sped into the City. I should’ve stayed on the train.