I don’t know if you’ve ever faced a writing block. Hell, I can’t even call it a writers block when it comes to me; I’m not a real writer yet. Notice how careful I am to say, Writing Block. I choose my words with tenderness, I pick them out from the archives of memory and imaginary otherworlds. I use the ends of my brain like chopsticks, left and right, slithering around for material tucked away in those archives. Sometimes I encounter strange new thoughts, God-knows-how-they-found-their-way-here kind of thoughts. Sometimes I am original, a positive new genius, shooting like a ball from a cannon’s mouth, straight into the arms of the Almighty Booker. And sometimes. I encounter Nothingness. The nadir of the mind, a temporary descent into zero.