—
Dear Writer’s Block,
It’s not you. It’s me.
I can only hope that opening this missive with such a trope allows you to mentally prepare yourself for what must surely follow, as such self-criticism doesn’t lend itself to wide semantic range within the context of a relationship—which surely we have, dysfunctional though it may be.
You’ve been my attentive companion for the last ten years. As admirable a dedication as that is, and testament to your integrity, I must conclude our involvement does no good for either of us. You were skilful in securing my attentions by handicapping my ability to translate stories and theories to a page, but even your formidable faculties couldn’t stop the mental narratives from forming in the first place. And so it is that my mind became full of prose pushing at the walls of my head, contesting for space, and with no avenue or audience left me quite unsatisfied. As a person of such resistance to your morals, I must be quite unsuitable for you, also.
It was not by any negligence on your part that I reached the conclusion we must part. I simply read more.
And more.
Did you know, when you allowed me to read, that it would be hazardous for our future? Your efforts at distracting me whenever I made moves to write were decidedly absent when I picked up a book. I wasn’t writing, but in reading I was assimilating and assessing the efforts of those who do, and with my cognisance came consideration of how I might have done it differently.
I feel like I’m channeling an old Englishman in my formation of this letter, as I certainly wouldn’t speak in this manner, unless in imitation or parody. That may be testament to how pervasive and persuasive the act of reading has become for me—if, as it seems, the conscious tone of such a formative letter is framed in the flavour of Jeeves and Wooster, of whom I’ve enjoyed close acquaintance in recent days.
I would like to be able to wish you all the best in your own future, but I can’t ethically wish such literary constipation on anyone who would rather otherwise. Whom could I recommend you to? Certainly no one among my current acquaintance.
Perhaps you may be more suited to a partner who has no creative tendencies at all—or rather, who would sincerely desire such tendencies repressed. I’m sure you’d have admirable qualities much to be desired by one who resides in an environment in which independent thought is discouraged. Which, again, includes nobody I can personally recommend.
You might perhaps try your recruitment in junior management circles. It seems to me such ilk appreciate a person with not only a lack of spontaneity, but with dull capacity for invention. You may have much to offer a misfit therein, as coach and comfort.
Farewell to you and us, Mister Block.
