I used to think it'd be clever to write a humongous novel about having writer's block, and being all meta-ironical about it. Fortunately, I never started writing it; I can't think of anything less enjoyable than reading 500 pages of whining and "Look, see, I have writer's block, and yet this is page 347, isn't that funny, blah blah blah..."
Shit, I mean, I was going crazy this morning working on my first review for album_reviews. And I purposely kept it easy - the album I picked is one I know really well.
I think I need to attach a tape recorder to my head, and just cut out the middleman. The whole brain-arm-hand connection doesn't seem to be cutting it.