wells, cows, and other things that go dry.

It hits you like a rush, the realization that this is it: you've finally run out of things to say. The well and the cow have both gone dry. This time it's for real, you know it. All the other times were just writer's block, this is the real deal. You have nothing to say now, nor will you ever again have anything to put into words for the reading pleasure or disgust of others.

Now that you know, know for sure that you will never again produce another piece of writing in your entire existance, you begin to panic. Mouth goes dry, mind racing, but all you can seem to come up with are metaphors about cows and wells and other things that go dry. What now? What else is there? Your craft is gone, now you're just another regular talentless person muddling through life, drinking beer and watching Monday Night Football. You have gone from artist to human in one terrible epiphany.

You sink lower and lower in your desk chair of woe. You should have been preparing, as you've known all along that this was bound to happen sometime. Why didn't you take up sculpting or guitar or knitting, just on the side, you know, to give yourself another creative outlet when writing finally let you down? Why weren't you prepared?

Your realization was sudden, and your inspiration will be likewise. For some unknown reason, the bucket on the pulley will come up full of water. The cow will milk once more. The words will pour from your mind. And you'll completely forget that you ever had any trouble coming up with what will become this brilliant piece of work. You won't watch Monday Night Football, you won't take up knitting. You will regain every ounce of the confidence in yourself, and will laugh off the silly idea that you will ever stop being inspired, that you will ever stop writing.

Until the next time.