Tuesday, September 7, 2010


The demons have been pernicious lately. They slither slowly through the grey nether regions of my consciousness, unseen but felt. Their utterances are soft but compelling, reminding me of the pointlessness of this struggle. My tongue is stopped, a red sore swells on my throat, burning and itching, now scabbing over, nearly healing, then angrily erupting again.

I tell myself to sit, to write, that unstopping my voice may release the poison. That may be pure superstitious bullshit. The one may have nothing to do with the other. It may be my need to make sense of things by seeing patterns in coincidence. I’ve had the eruption on my neck before, frequently, in times of stress, always in the same place. It generally fades with time, but this occurrence is stretching longer than usual.

‘You’re lazy,’ they whisper.

‘You’re right.’ I agree with them, shame, then despondency, drifting like a dull net over me. ‘What’s the point?’

‘You have nothing to say.’

I turn the sentence I have just typed over in my mind, wondering if it should stand. The red spot on my neck burns hotter. 


  1. Your demons are imaginary. You have much to say.

  2. Interesting description of writer's block. Maybe you can enlighten me more next month in Salzburg. The demons seem to have fled.


  3. Ah the demons! They sit on my shoulder, whisper in my ear, make me feel small, a failure, a loser. "Why write? You know you can't do this..."

    The demons are real. Friend R. says: if you fight them they've won. He suggests to acknowledge their presence ("I see you are here, please have a seat over there"), to let them know I am busy and to get on with my writing, whatever it may be, however good it may be. It takes practice, but eventually the demons get bored. Then they are gone.

    Lorraine, I see you are free! It's great to see you posting.