It's like wrestling a weak but larger than me gorilla who knows he's going to get beat but refuses to surrender. And I, gradually succumbing to my own strengths and desires, I begin to understand that I not only will 'win' this battle but I must win it.
Even though the next day the gorilla will rise again and wrap his hairy arms around me and hold me back from my day's work.
Somewhere in my room is Stephen Pressfield's "The War of Art" where he writes about resistance and how to deal with it. Then there's a little book called "Bird by Bird", again a nice book about writer's block/resistance...I should finish reading it. (No, I can't recall the author right now!)
But most of all I can remember the best advice I ever got about this aspect of 'being a writer': Write, write, write, write.
At some point I know there's the interjection of the word 'edit' but that hardly applies if you aren't writing.
I've got excuses...tons of legitimate reasons why I haven't been writing...but at this point I don't care about them.
I'm about to fucking burst wide open if I don't get these stories down, these thought out, these rivers of poems to other people's eyes and ears.
Again I find myself rising from a heap of lazy dust, beating the staleness off my clothes and out of my eyes.