There is nothing worse for a budding, seasoned or even occasional writer than the blank page that just will not miraculously fill up with effervescent words subtlety and with great craft intertwining into a remarkable tale that forces the reader into an obsessive-like trance engulfing each twisting phrase.

Instead of hearing the rapid clicking and clacking of the keyboard as the fingers pound forcefully and skillfully never creating a single error while the outgoing electric impulses fire fast enough to keep up with the neurons flashing each new thought in the brain, all that can be heard is the incessant tinnitus.

Concentration levels that usually encase the writer in a blessed cocoon blocking out whining children, telemarketing happy hour, and physical urges for relief have more holes and vulnerabilities than the US border with any country providing cheap labor or lead painted toys.

The frustration reaches down through the gullet extending a serrated sword ablaze with defeat ripping tender flesh as it makes its way deep into the bloated gut filled with the tainted air inhaled through each pitiful sigh.

Finally, the crushing blow is dealt when the only idea that comes to fruition is the one that slowly, melodramatically describes the over-expressed, over-analyzed, and over-hyped torture a writer feels when they are unable to mold a single original thought into a coherent, satisfying work of literary prowess.

It usually happens on Monday.