I am reposting this, well, because I can’t think of anything else and the jokes are just so damn funny.
One of the joys of having Writer’s Block (work with me people, I’m trying to be positive here) is that you can surf the internet for hours without feeling guilty about ‘wasting time’. After all, I am looking for inspiration. Right?
There are of course those people who never suffer from this malaise and continue to write anything from 1000 to 15000 words per day. I want to state for the record that they are either lying or from Mars.
In my attempt to see the lighter side of this
catastrophic interesting situation, I found some jokes on the Net and am copying it shamelessly sharing it on my blog, since I don’t have an original thought in my brain at this time. (Not that I am bitter or anything … seriously, I’m not … ok, I am … STOP STARING!)
A writer died and was given the option of going to heaven or hell.
She decided to check out each place first. As the writer descended into the fiery pits, she saw row upon row of writers chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. As they worked, they were repeatedly whipped with thorny lashes.
“Oh my,” said the writer. “Let me see heaven now.”
A few moments later, as she ascended into heaven, she saw rows of writers, chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. As they worked, they, too, were whipped with thorny lashes.
“Wait a minute,” said the writer. “This is just as bad as hell!”
“Oh no, it’s not,” replied an unseen voice. “Here, your work gets published.”
There was once a young man who, in his youth, professed his desire to become a great writer.
When asked to define great, he said, “I want to write stuff that the whole world will read, stuff that people will react to on a truly emotional level, stuff that will make them scream, cry, howl in pain and anger!”
He now works for Microsoft writing error messages.
A screenwriter comes home to a burned down house. His sobbing and slightly-singed wife is standing outside. “What happened, honey?” the man asks.
“Oh, John, it was terrible,” she weeps. “I was cooking, the phone rang. It was your agent. Because I was on the phone, I didn’t notice the stove was on fire. It went up in second. Everything is gone. I nearly didn’t make it out of the house. Poor Fluffy is–”
“Wait, wait. Back up a minute,” The man says. “My agent called?”