I was sitting at my desk staring at a blank screen.

Not because there was nothing to write about.

Because I’d already written about it.

Again.

Same thoughts dressed in different clothes.

Again.

Different titles. Same skeleton. One more time.

I sat back and groaned.

Otis was stretched across the desk, occupying the exact amount of space required to make typing difficult. He looked up at me, tail flashing.

“Writer’s Block.”

“No,” twitching his ears, “You’ve got Writer’s echo.”

“Really? Enlighten me with the difference.”

Otis stood up, stretched, and hopped onto the windowsill. “You’ve become a cover band of yourself.”

“That’s called having a style,” shrugging.

Otis flicked his tail.

“No. A style discovers new things. A cover band plays the same songs.”

“So now you’re a creative expert?”

“Nope. I’m a cat. And cats are curious. Change it up. Don’t sit in the same box; find a paper bag. Ignore the fifty-dollar toy; spend three hours attacking a twist tie. Sit in the sink when perfectly good furniture is available. Sprint through the house at three in the morning for reasons known only to God.”

Can We Help You?

At what point does an artistic voice become an artistic prison?

What paper bag have you climbed into lately?

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