By Ronda Simmons
There once was a writer with Block
Who needed to stop and take stock.
Her prose was a mess,
Her nerves were in stress,
She wanted to hide in a rock.
She reread her draft with disgust.
Her literary dreams dashed to dust.
“There’s no plot, no action,
There’s only distraction!
There is no question: I must readjust.”
“There has to be a solution,”
She said with great resolution,
“I’ve got deadlines galore,
I can’t write anymore.
My output is lillipution.”
She went to her writing companions
Who wrote with the speed of wild stallions
“What you need is a break,
Your world needs a shake,”
They assured her just like they were chaplains.
“You don’t understand,” she bemoaned.”
My deadlines have all been postponed.
Will power lacking,
Doubts are attacking
Instead of writing, I’ve zoned.”
Her critique partners assured her
It wasn’t like committing murder
“Find a place that is nice,
Bring a writing device,
And your writing will grow clean and purer.”
“But how can I do that alone?
I’m afraid of the strange and unknown.
You know that I’m shy,
And easily cry,
Can’t I do all of this from my home?”
“You can’t,” they said with composure.
“There’s a big writing thing in October,
In great Estes Park,
To go is a lark,”
Your days of this block will be over.”
“And who provides this experience?”
She thought it seemed very mysterious.
“To only go write
That seems such delight
You really cannot be that serious!”
“The Northern Colorado Writers
Should really be called ‘The Exciters.’
They’ll get you reset,
Your goals will be met
They won’t let you down, they are fighters!”
“You seem to be making the case
That I need to find a new space.
One without chores,
Like sweeping of floors
Maybe that wouldn’t be a waste.”
“I must go someplace with more peace
My productivity might just increase
My words will be flowin’
My confidence growin’
Away from the grammar police.”
“To yon Estes Park I’ll be drivin,’
And hopefully, elk will be thrivin’!
A writing retreat
Just cannot be beat!
Will the scenery look like Hawaiian?”
“You silly old girl,” her friends told her
“You’ll be looking at mountains and boulders.
No palm trees in sight,
No trans ocean flight
You really must go,” they cajoled her
“Alright, I’m convinced,” she exclaimed
“I’m tired of the same same ol’ same.
I’ll pack up my case,
And go to that place
And rekindle my lost writing flame.”
And so, to the mountains she went
Her confidence nearly was spent
She checked in, she waited
With breath nearly bated
For the magic to begin its ascent
And that’s just what happened, it’s true
Over her keyboard her fingers they flew
She worked on her outline
The food all was sublime,
And she took breaks to enjoy the view
When she returned to her group, she was joyous
“We’re happy you want to rejoin us,”
They said with a smile
“Was your time there fertile?”
“You betcha,” she said with flamboyance.
“Please read us some from your new draft,”
They said as they jumped up and laughed.
“Why are we waiting?
This needs celebrating!
You’ve regained your love of the craft!”
And so, dear reader, take a listen.
If you find yourself in this position.
If you’re stuck and you’re blocked,
Get your muses unlocked
And return to your original vision.
If you are a writer that’s blue.
You might need something wildly new.
Your mojo is fine
It just slowed down with time.
Go on retreat, reset, and renew.