Writers' Bloc

So recently in my english class we read Sir Philip Sidney's Astrophil and Stella, which is a series of one-hundred-and-eight sonnets, all as gorgeous as they are creepy, detailing the often torrid, always precious love/obsession a self-destructive young man has with a woman who is already married.

All of which went far and away towards driving home one single, embarrassing, emotionally-destabilizing, and quite silly fact: I have writers' block.

What's interesting (read "unusual") about the first sonnet in the series, is that Sidney actually took the time to write out a perfectly-ordered, Petrarchan sonnet in flawless iambic hexameter about how he didn't know what to write. The tool.

One of the metaphors he uses to describe writers' block really stuck with me: "Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes..."

You've read that correctly. He's managed to add a new level of creepiness and discomfort by comparing two situations of similar emotional disarray, and actually make a point out of it. It is frustrating, that bizarre and random constipation of ideas, the disconnect between the imagination and the hands, the unnatural, unbearable inability to convey what you so desperately need to express.

But what are we supposed to do about it?
I mean honestly, even a pregnancy has to come in its own time...what can we do?

Do we subscribe to the Thousand-Monkeys idea and just sit at the computer banging our heads against the keyboard until we manage to slam out a masterpiece? (tried it, didn't work).

Do we laze about, wallowing in creative ennui until some random inspirational neutrino happens to fall our way? (takes entirely too long).

Do we hike up the side of Mount Helicon, bang down the door and demand to speak to the muse in charge about a more equitable distribution of inspiration? (...that one might be fun, actually).

I dunno, I'm just really starting to get annoyed that I don't know what to write.

Next thing you know, I'll just start ranting.