I am not able to conjure up new posts at my will these days. It has become difficult to write humor and satire amid so much death, destruction, and depravity. It stresses me out when I can’t write. When I told all this to a friend, she opined that I must be having writer’s bullock. Initially, I did not understand her, but when I contemplated on it later, the picture became clear. Writers should have unicorns, flying horses, birds-of-paradise, butterflies, and so on. Bullocks are for farmers and village people. When a writer has bullocks, he or she cannot write.
In my imagination I saw two bullocks and they were not allowing me to write. They had a cartload of books, and implied that until I read all those books, they were not going to leave me. I considered it a pleasant break from the nerve-racking 24-hour news grind, which is then magnified by bloggers, and then further bombarded by Facebook and Twitter friends.
In my imagination I saw two bullocks and they were not allowing me to write. They had a cartload of books, and implied that until I read all those books, they were not going to leave me. I considered it a pleasant break from the nerve-racking 24-hour news grind, which is then magnified by bloggers, and then further bombarded by Facebook and Twitter friends.
Writer's Bullocks |