Writer's block

I can still vividly recall the sight of soft yellow light from an untainted light bulbs diffused by the paper lamp cover on top of the emerald green dragon head lamp sitting on top of his desk.  He is the only person in my family who smokes once a while.  I recall later years he finally quit but when ever he's deeply stressed he would drink a little and smoke a few.  Often I see him crumbling freshly written lined paper and toss the paper ball into a nearby trash basket which is filled with crumbling balls.  Minutes later he would reach over and pick up that crumbling paper ball and flatten it and happily cherishes it and start making circles.  In later years my mother liked to describe the way my grand father reacted to writer's block like a tube of nearly empty toothpaste.  No matter how hard you squeeze, only a little spews out.  But that little paste is still enough to brush off a night of heavy eating however just won't foam as much. 

I grew up in a literary family having both grandparents from my father's side to be renowned in the Foreign language to Chinese translation circle and output many popular text and books.  There are books all over my humble 2 bedroom home in Nanjing.  I heard there were even more books before the destructive cultural revolution in the 60's which forced the family to burn many before they confiscate them.  Somehow, being the first grandson of the family who carried on the last name Zhao, I am neither at all a passionate book reader nor a writer by occupation.  Perhaps I carried on the workaholism of my mother and became possibly the first Zhao to work full time in an office environment and loving my job everyday. 

In recent years I finally picked up or rediscover the artist within me.  Photography became my second expression.  When ever I am out of words, I like to use my subjects to set the place, composition to tell the story, depth of field to foreshadow, and write a few lines as if a movie isn't complete without a subtitle. 

1258pm reads on my clock.  I have just 2 more minutes before my lunch hour is complete.  Sipping an incredibly delicious soup made up of bitter melon, mushroom, squash, and clams braised in chicken stock.  Half hour ago I imagined myself as the journalist from New York Times who interviewed Andrew Cuomo in his so called Camp Campaign for NY Governor but 2 pages through an article that counts more than 10 pages I suddenly obtained the urge to finally write something.

Last night I described myself as if an empty tube of toothpaste being squeezed but nothing comes out.  15 minutes ago I was ready to write but only faced with lack of topics.  I searched the ceiling left and right leaning my head against my cushioned office chair.  I pictured the hanging ornament off the ceiling and pretend my pupils were F 1.8 lenses by Nikon to create the shallow and deep depth of field over and over.  Suddenly I thought, writer's block.  Why don't I topic myself off writer's block.

I like to quote the marketing niche of Nike, "just do it".  We, as professionals in what ever field we do,  often times we are so well aware of our own processes thus instead of progressing we sloth in an almost standing still motion.  Just do it - I'm not sure where this topic can lead myself to but without starting from somewhere then how can I end here.