Jack Torrents – small god of Writer’s Block

[image description:  A wine-colored monochrome portrait of an increasingly frustrated and deranged white man lies over a page of text. Though each line is different (and all seemingly misspelled) they are to the effect that ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’. There are unsettling blood stains at the bottom of the page. Text (in Courier font) reads, “206, Jack Torrents, small god of Writer’s Block”]

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Never has there been a more perfect more infallible more glorious god, worthy only of praise, no censure, no critique.*

(*Anne O’Tate is a god of research and form, not composition, and I have to hope she can protect me, if I cast my text into her domain.  So: Jack.  Jack is the small god of writer’s block.  He offers suggestions, offers comforts and concern, and his company can seem like a blessing, when it comes at the beginning of such an affliction.  Here is someone who KNOWS.  Here is someone who UNDERSTANDS.

But if we give him our worship and our attention, here is someone who LINGERS.  Someone who feeds every excuse, every bit of precious fragility.  “Oh, I can’t write, I saw a bad thing on social media.”  “Oh, I can’t write, Starbucks was out of Pumpkin Spice muffins.”  “Oh, I can’t write, I don’t feel it in my heart.”

All of that is Jack.  He will feed the worst parts of you, will enable and encourage, will refuse to leave unless made to do so.)

And because he is such a perfect god, there is no need for someone as small and insignificant as I to attract his attention for even a moment.  He has far more important things to do with his time, far more essential worshippers to care for and defend.**

(**I am going to kill you for attracting his attention to me, even for a moment.  I don’t know how and I don’t know when, but I know I’m going to do it, because how dare you.  It’s my job to write these things down, and now here I am with Jack Torrents looking in my direction, and no ability to shift his gaze away, save for hiding myself in footnotes and praising his name.  How DARE you.)

All praise to Jack Torrents, small god of writer’s block, so essential, so desired, so glorious in his munificence and his generosity, so perfect in divinity.  We are fortunate to be found worthy in his sight.***

(***I think he’s gone.  I need a drink.)

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Join Lee Moyer (Icon) and Seanan McGuire (Story) Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many small deities who manage our modern world:

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