I am having trouble writing, today. I have feelings (many of them good, actually), but there exists this block between my head and my fingers.

I can feel around the edges of the block, feel the cool, sweet air just on the other side of it. But I cannot move it.

I think that it might be red streaked with black, but I haven’t a clue. Every time I try to  get a glimpse of it, it skitters away.

Moving writers’ blocks.
What WILL they think of next?

I think that this wall, this thing that is preventing my writing is this probably self-generated. I think it is an accumulation of rust and disuse. Like the gears and coils of a bombed out British clock shop.

Maybe, she thought, maybe if I just apply a little elbow grease and resolve, I can clean up this place. Make it habitable again. A place of rest and excitement and color, again. 
I could do it, she thought. It would just take a little patience. And practice. 

And practice.