I Blame Momo

Writer’s block is a bitch — but you already knew that.

Sometimes when I sit down to write, I end up sitting still for long stretches of time, hovering a pen over an empty page while I sort out my thoughts. More often than not, the words just never seem to come. It’s always during these moments when I’ve reached the most agonizing depths of writer’s block that my cat, Momo, will sit down to watch me write. Without having to look up, I’ll feel his gaze. It’s hard to ignore those wide, golden eyes piercing the back of your shoulder.

For as long as I remain still, Momo’s gaze never wavers. He stays fixed to his spot, forever vigilant, ever watchful of my desperation, my creative stupor. Momo is the fiery sentinel who guards the unwritten word, the gatekeeper of clarity and literary madness.

Momo will stare at me perplexedly with his limited understanding, asking me in that silent way of his, “You could be doing anything with your free time right now, so why are you sitting still?” Most of the time, I’m not even sure of the answer myself. Am I a writer, or aren’t I? Why does writing have to be such an unnatural, labored act for me? How can I be a novelist if I lack the discipline to write on command, or to update a blog on a regular basis?

Then my attention drifts to other questions. What is the point of writing, in the end? How far removed is the desire to be heard from the crassness of vanity? Why am I doomed to serve this agonizing compulsion to express a collection of thoughts that I never seem to have at my command?

Sure, Momo never intended to thrust my thoughts into a spiral of introspection and self-doubt, and yet he takes me there with that curious little stare. How can I write with that furry little inquisitor judging me so passive aggressively, posing those debilitating questions through his muffled, unspoken meows?

Momo has a staring problem.