Writer's block, or how to eat an elephant

It's been two weeks since I arrived in Seattle and perched at my desk overlooking the Space Needle, Puget Sound and, weather permitting, the Olympics. In that time, I've developed a passable poker face, got really good at Carcassone (once we'd added two expansion packs and I was allowed to create The Leper tile), pranced about in unseasonably heavy snowfall, roasted my first Thanksgiving turkey and spent the next week trying to get rid of the evidence (by hiding it in turkey toasties, turkey kievs, Silesian potato dumplings in turkey and tomato sauce, and turkey quiche... no more turkey for at least a year for me, please). The one thing I haven't done is WRITE THAT DARN ARTICLE.

Every day, I sit at the table, look out at the sunny/snowy/rainy/misty Seattle, and balk. My SPSS is up and running, all the reference articles I've spent a year collecting are right in front of me, and I've even managed to write the first paragraph of the introduction. The first sentence will knock your socks off, guaranteed. But since then, nil, nada, zilch.

I sit at the table and stare outside. It's morning, it's noon, it's night. I read the paragraph, go through my notes, then balk.

All I've done today is colour-code the reference articles. Heck, it's a start. In fact, I was so proud of myself that I went on facebook to brag about it... only to be faced with a deluge of ads. My choices were simple: get help getting pregnant, find divorce attorneys near me, or buy discount Hunter wellies. I've been married for six months. Six! So just because my Wall isn't chock-full of baby news, my marriage must be on the rocks?! It's a brave new world out there, fb, and I've only just moved countries, so cut me some slack.

I clicked 'uninterested' and thought that would be that. But no, fb has it all worked out. No offspring, not interested in a little help siring one, and won't consider a divorce? But of course! Here's a new ad for me: local churches. Figures. I sat there staring at it, and actually thought it did make some sense. I'm a childless, faithless hag, and I need new shoes.

I need to write an article. The future of my nascent research career depends on it.

(Or I could start pushing pins through condoms... If only the thought of pregnancy didn't make me think of baby aliens breaking out...)

The way to eat an elephant is to start by eating the tail. With the colour-coding done, it's onto the trunk. If I only knew for which actual piece of article-writing that metaphor was supposed to stand.