35. Like Father Like Son

I thought, just for a change, I’d take advantage of the supervised study session taking place in the school’s library this evening. Yeah - me and about half a dozen other sad sacks.
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Been staring for the last hour at Doubtfire’s book and can’t make head or tail of the text. Trying to recall just what it was that caused the honeymoon period with my new friend, Writing, to come to such an abrupt

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probably when I first realised - and was overwhelmed by - the amount of disciplined work and focused energy it would take to complete a novel, or to finish up just one of the dozen rambling short story’s I had on the go. The enormity of it immobilized me. And what, in the end, did I have to show for it all? A few short stories (mostly unfinished), a poem or two (about holes), and the first few chapters of what was going to be a novel, a crick in my neck and a shiny callus near the top knuckle of my birdy finger. 
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Suffered writer’s cramp on occasion towards the end, but managed to write on through it. Suffered writer’s block, too, once or twice, but, unlike cramp, you can’t just write on through it. What can you do when the block comes? Bash your head against the desk. In pain. In vain. But, I ask you, Journal, does that a writer make? Not! And anyway, perhaps I would write, but I just don’t have any ideas at the moment. I’m plotless. Or am I just caught in the shadow of Dad’s weakness – suffering nothing more serious than a simple lack of discipline?