When I taught writing years ago, I didn’t believe in writer’s block. Just look at me, guys! Need five pages about cheese mould? Got it! Three thousand words on interstitial cystitis? Done! A sonnet? Before breakfast!
Then I developed my very own, personal, made-to-order writer’s block. It felt like trying to write inside my own coffin.
As a child, I was taught–and made–to get back on my horse after a fall, no matter how much I hurt or how scared I was. Just do it. I competed in endurance, rode thousands of miles, trained and conditioned horses, and started colts.
A family emergency grounded me for months. Instead of riding, I struggled to understand Social Security, Medicare, gerontology, and to untangle the decades of a relative’s dementia. Every day, I fed and cared for the horses.
But I didn’t ride. Even when I could. No saddle fit my horse well enough. No trail was close enough to home. No hour fell at the right time to tack up.
A lot of friends are standing beside their horses, like me.
It doesn’t matter if you ride. You can take your horse for a hike, give him a bath, read him your poems.