WRITERS BLOCK---BLOQUEO DE ESCRITOR,© Carlos de la Parra.(Spanish and English versions of a typical problem, clic down for unique view.)

El escritor harto de contemplar la hoja en blanco se puso a dibujar una mano huesuda como de esqueleto. Tan bien hecha le quedó que cobró vida y lo jaló de la corbata y lo fué metiendo para dentro de la hoja al tiempo que le gritaba:
--- ¡Que hartazgo tengo de tí, presionándome con la mirada, pensando que idiotez vas a escribir!,¿ Pero ya te has puesto a pensar a quien le importa lo que escribas y como lo escribas?----

----Bueno quizás a nadie más que a mí---- respondió agónicamente agarrándose de las orillas de la hoja para evitar que éste horrible esqueleto lo acabase de meter dentro del papel.---

----Por Dios, dame un respiro. Ya han pasado desfiles de premiados con el Nobel, el Goncourt, el Príncipe de Asturias,y más; ¿Y qué? Igual se mueren y a la gente no le importa, mira escribe cualquier idiotez que aparezca en el interior de tu cráneo y vete a trabajar, o prepara una buena cena, o cumple con tu deber de entretener al perro, haz cualquier cosa, pero ya.---

En éso sonó el teléfono y contestó con la mano libre y escuchó:
------Pásame al de la mano huesuda.----

Le pasó el teléfono y éste le soltó la mano. Se fué a preparar la cena.

ENGLISH VERSION.

He was at it again, enduring writer's block, sitting there like an idiot staring at the blank page.
Finally realizing this was an exercise of motionless stress and sanity doubts he opted to draw a bony skeletal hand. And he was doing such a great job at it that the hand for unbeknownst reasons came alive on it's own and proceeded to pull him from his tie into the blank page, needless to say causing the writer sheer terror at disappearing into the abyss of that sheet of paper not understanding the final intentions the bony hand had for him , so he struggled to brace himself from his desk and pulled back on the hand with so much strength that you could see the whole bony arm sticking out of the paper. Then he heard the voice of this eerie creature speak:
---Oh man! I'm so sick of you, always stalking the page, conniving to impress with all the crap you imagine, has it ever dawned on you , who gives a royal shit at what you write? Are you not aware before your performance that you have previously been bested by many of other writers who have outdone you by winning nobels, and bookers and goncourts not to mention eons of prizes designed to give them a luster as deservers of glory and money, and who cares?

 ----Well maybe I care. It's about doing my own version, I'm not competing with anyone, I just do my thing.----

----OH. JUST ENTIRELY SICKENING! Allow me to drown you in a sea of vomit.
Why don't you apply your sick self to something you do well like entertaining the dog or cooking dinner?----

At this point the phone rang and the writer picked it up with his free hand and heard the voice saying.
---Pass me the guy with the bony hand---.

As he  handed the receiver, he let go off him ,Now he left the room to go prepare  supper.