A writer's block that lasts ten years. Will it ease eventually? 

He couldn’t write much of anything for a decade.

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Each time that he sat down at the typewriter, he heard a woodpecker drilling into a tree. He’d wonder if the bird was successful at finding insects. Sometimes, he pictured the tree crashing down onto his house. Then his mind switched to his neighbors. Sally from across the street, who was tall and slender with light brown hair and always wore a stoic or, some might say, blank expression – was she fighting with her husband much? Was their toddler able to string together a sentence yet? And what about the old man down the street, the one who often stopped him to ask random questions about bird songs? He had a rusty tricycle in the front yard and a motorboat in the driveway. Was the old man’s health good? Was he a widower or long divorced? On the other side of the street, there was a family with two mixed-race boys, around 8 and 10 years old. The 1950s-relic of a dad disappeared each morning, with briefcase in hand, wearing a suit and tie. The woman drove a yellow station wagon with the kids in it, to and from school each day.

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When it was cold out and there were no woodpeckers, he mused about what to eat for lunch. Would he cook himself wafer-thin, buttery pancakes and take a nap after gorging them? Or would he go to a local tavern and put back a few with salmon or buffalo-infused fried cauliflower? The fried cauliflower was good, but it left him hungry a few hours later, especially if he had more than a few drinks. Then he thought of the older alcoholics he knew or had passed away and how they didn’t like to eat. At dinner tables, people would goad them, “Eat some pizza!” or “Have just a bite of mashed potato!” They’d shake their heads, knowing that the liquid warmth that deluged their organs allowed them to transcend food, at least until they became ravenous. Then they’d turn to crackers or allow themselves to have a small slice of pizza.

That’s how he knew that he wasn’t an alcoholic: he still liked to eat!

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Ten years is a long time and for our friend, it seemed like eons. Many of his acquaintances would ask when his next book was coming out. “It’s coming along,” he’d answer with a wink and a forced smile.

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His literary agent, not ready to give up on the three-time best-seller, always left the door open. Occasionally, she would ask him out for coffee to try to intuit where things were with the next book.

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“He talks about the birds in his neighbourhood,” she complained to her boss. “But, who knows, it could be a cover. One fine day, he might call me up and say, ‘Guess what, the next Great Gatsby is in your inbox.’”

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Poor thing. She would have a long wait because, for our friend, the birds were the problem.