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Show O: TTim flD90flBlk WHnfisitll ::jrV by David Fleisher The ABCs of writer's block he'd look at the Dixie cup. "You could have taken care of that at the hospital," he said. "But I was told to bring it with me," I said. "That's ridiculous," he responded, "Nobody carries urine around in a Dixie cup!" And I said, "What do you want me to use, a balloon?" Shortly after arriving at the hospital, a doctor put me to sleep with Sodium Penothol." How can I write about knee surgery when I was asleep? Forget it. I've got to think of another subject. Sunday, 3 p.m. How about gardening? It's getting late, I've got to think of something. The deadline is tomorrow morning. How about construction on Main Street? Did that already. How about my experiences at a recent baby shower? Did that, too. Damn it! I wish I had a dog to walk. Sunday, 4:30 p.m. Randi and Faye dropped by to visit. I was resting on the couch when they knocked on the door. It was a loud knock. I thought it was the police. My God, I'm going to be arrested because I can't think of anything to write about this week! I'm becoming irrational. When I told Faye I was sleeping on the couch, she called me a "couch potato." Couch potato? I've never heard of that expression. Maybe I could write about couch potatoes. Now I'm getting desperate, despe-rate, and that's a bad sign. Sunday, 10 p.m. I have been sitting here in front of this typewriter for two hours, and absolutely nothing has passed through my brain. I have given new meaning to the word "airhead." What's the matter with me? Am I going through puberty? Did that already. Menopause? Meno-pause? Impossible. Senility? Too young. All right, get a grip on yourself. This is the problem: It's late and I need some rest. My head is spinning from trying too hard to think of something to write about. I need to relax and calm down. I'm going to bed now and think good thoughts, and when I wake up in the morning I'll be fresh and clear-headed. I'll get up at six o'clock, and that'll still give me time to write the column before deadline. I'm sure I'll think of a lot of things to write about after a good night's rest. Great idea! I feel good already. Go to bed. I write better in the morning, anyway. Monday, 6 a.m. How about gardening? As I walk up Main Street I hear the Ten O'Clock Whistle. I knew it would happen to me one day. It was just a matter of time. It comes with the territory. But why now? I'm in the prime of my life. I haven't committed any major sins against God lately. Why now? People have asked me, "How do you come up with things . to write about every week?" And I'd answer, "Oh, I don't know, it just comes to me." And then they'd say, "Has there ever been a week when you couldn't think of something?" and I'd say matter-of-factly, "No, it just comes to me." You may want to sit down before I tell you this. But I'll give it to you straight: It didn't come this week. Allow me to share with you my struggle against what is commonly referred to as writer's block. The following is a truthful account of my inner thoughts over the past few days: Saturday, 2 p.m. How about gardening? I can't write about gardening. I don't know anything about it, plus it looks boring. The controversy over banning real estate signs? I did that last week. Women in Park City? Which women? Too personal. May get nasty phone calls. Women in Provo? I don't know anything about it, plus it looks boring. Maybe I should go outside in the fresh air. It'll help me think clearer. Til walk the dog. I can't walk the dog. I don't have a dog. Maybe I could walk the neighbor's dog. Saturday, 4 p.m. Glad I took a nap; needed a break. I think I'll cook a steak on the grill tonight. Write the column first, then I'll be able to digest my food better. Good idea. Then again, there's no hurry. I've got until Monday morning. I'll think up a subject now, then write about it ' after dinner. Jog, first. Loosen up. I can't jog. I just had surgery on my knee. "That's it! I'll write about knee surgery: "Last week I went to Holy Cross Hospital in Salt Lake and had an operation on my knee. The day ' before the operation, a nurse at the hospital called and said I should bring a specimen of urine. "Whose urine," I asked. "Your urine," she answered. At six o'clock the following morning, I went to Salt Lake carrying a urine specimen in a little Dixie cup. This was by far the most traumatic part of the entire operation. My friend Mike Phillips drove me to the hospital, and every once in a while |