I had a teacher tell me once that if you can’t think of what to write about, write about your table. Spend ten minutes writing everything you can. The next day, write about the table. Don’t look at what you wrote yesterday, just write ten minutes about that table. The following day, write about the table. For thirty days straight, only write about the table, and after thirty days, you will have more details about that table than you ever could’ve imagined: its wobbly leg, uneven stain, the part of the grain that looks like “The Scream,” the ice cream still globbed on the corner from your daughter’s birthday party, the chip in the middle from when your wife tried to kill a spider with a butter knife, the sun’s diamond patterns on its surface at 3:06 pm when you are drinking your third cup of coffee, the water stain you keep forgetting to soak in olive oil and the San Diego souvenir coaster you keep forgetting to utilize. After thirty days staring at that godforsaken table, you will realize you can write, and you will beg yourself, please, to write about anything else. For me, it is busy-ness. The thing that keeps me from writing. Because when I sit down to write, I want to leave with a finished, polished product. Something complete. This means when I start writing, I need to write all the way through whatever it is I am processing, be it a journal entry, an essay, a letter, a poem. It also takes a lot of energy, especially to write something intimate, something that matters to me. It’s much easier to spend my time on less draining, more mindless activities. The most fearsome phrase: Writer’s Block. Mine appears when I am cooking up a brilliant draft in my head, but when I transcribe the words on the page, they fall flat. I hit a wall. Everything sounds stupid. If I reach this wall, I know my perfectionism has taken over. The desire for every piece I write to matter (aka be publishable) makes me forget that every bad draft is still part of me and every bad draft is bringing me closer to The Thing, whatever The Thing may be on that particular day. What I’m trying to say is, I am my own block. I’m lazy. I make excuses. Sometimes I want to go to the beach or watch Harry Potter instead of struggling with that wretched table and its dusty corner. But if I decide to be disciplined, then there’s always something to write about. Observation is a writer’s greatest tool. What do you see? smell? taste? feel? hear? Where does it take you? Who does it bring to mind? Our second greatest tool is gratitude. If you’re sick of that mother-fudging table, remember what you’re grateful for and make a list. Today, I’m thankful for my little brother and his dog, for Jess asking me to officiate her wedding, for Christy’s reminder to “wear less and go out more,” for the candied colors of the sky on my drive home. And of course, for you, for coming to the page. So if you’re caught in a block, pull up a chair (to this late 19th century, octagonal, smoking-room table). I’ll meet you there. •