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Late-Night Pizza and Writer’s Block

Writer’s block is a myth, but here I am

My mind somewhere else.

Melted cheese, carbs and red sauce.

Nothing to do with what I wanted to write about.

When I thought about writing today’s post, I wanted to capture the procrastination struggle all writers face.

As I sit here thinking about pizza.

Not about the words.

All my thoughts and pre-written lines popped right out of my head.

All those perfect words died as literal figments of my imagination.

Gone.

Goodbye.

“You tried to write. You should reward yourself by ordering some pizza,” my brain thought.

Pizza.

Sounded good.

But I promised myself to write another blog post before any reward.

“You can’t force it, Brian. You have to be inspired. Get the pizza… and try again tomorrow.”

Not today, brain.

I know what you’re doing.

That’s the fatal flaw for writers.

Tomorrow.

Writing today turns into writing tomorrow.

Writing tomorrow turns into the next day.

The next day turns into the following day.

The next thing I know I’m on the couch at three am binge watching The Office for the nineteenth time and haven’t written so much as fucking predicate in months.

I promised myself I would write and publish a post today.

In less than an hour, I’d break that promise.

No.

I won’t let that happen.

I refuse to make the same mistake.

The mistake I’ve made nearly every day of my life.

I won’t push off writing until tomorrow.

I’ll just write about whatever comes to mind, edit it and hit publish before midnight.

What did Hemingway say?

“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”

I took a deep breath and thought about Hemingway’s words.

My brain wasn’t having it.

A pizza would really help me think.

My stomach grumbled.

Pizza would give me creative fuel.

I glanced down at the clock.

It read eleven fifteen.

The pizza twilight zone.

The special time period where actual good pizza won’t satisfy pizza cravings, mainly because all the good pizza joints closed, and I wasn’t in the city.  

The pizza twilight zone, the magical time between eleven pm and four am, where only chain shitty pseudo bread with terrible sauce and cheese made from God knows what will cure that pizza fever.

“Dude, it’s cheap. The quality versus the price is worth it.”

“They have those chicken bites. Order some of those or that giant fucking chocolate chip cookie, man.”

“You’re going to die alone, mine as well deal with loneliness by eating some pizza in bed.”

All valid reasons for late-night pizza.

There’s just something special about the only human interaction of my day being someone bringing a burning hot pizza to my house.

Sure, it’s essentially delivered Ellios, but it’s the little things.

Ellios.

The shit.

I ate that practically every day as a kid. The only issue was that it took eighteen to twenty-two minutes to cook, which doesn’t even factor in the preheating of the oven. As a pre-teen and even teenager, looking at potential forty-minute pizza job felt like an eternity. Back then, it was one full Madden game. Like any other latch-key kid, I’d say fuck preheating the oven and throw the pizza in as soon as I turned it on. I’d immediately run down to my basement and get back to playing Madden.

Many times I ate pizza that was undercooked.

“I’m not going to cook it for a couple more minutes in the middle of my game or start a new one,” I’d tell myself.  

Sometimes I ate it burnt because, “One more series and I’ll get the pizza.”

I’d eat so much, too.

My fat ass wouldn’t break apart the slices. Ellios came in frozen blocks of pizza. Three pieces per block. I’d cook a whole three-piece brick of pizza as one giant slice. I’d load it up with garlic powder.

BAM!

Shout out to Emeril.

Is it cool to call him out or is he cancelled?

I really never know anymore.

Anyway, let’s get back to ordering bad pizza late at night.

I mean, writing.

The clock hit eleven forty-five.

Fifteen minutes to my deadline.

A self-imposed deadline.

How serious is that?

I didn’t need to make it.

If I ordered pizza now, it would get here a little after midnight.

A deadline that never missed.

Or I got a discount.

I remember one time I ordered from a national pizza chain, and it was the best pizza I had ever eaten. The cheesy was melty. The crust was warm. It was the perfect ratio of sauce to bread to cheese. Every time it gets late at night, and I crave pizza, I remember this. And like a junkie chasing his fix, I convince myself that this next eight-dollar pizza will just be like that perfect one so long ago.

As late-night pizza enthusiasts know, you’ll never catch that high again. Yet, you still hold out hope that someday, you’ll experience that perfect cardboard pizza one more time.

Unfortunately, the pizza disappoints every time.

But it also hits the spot.

All this pizza talk reminds me, I have half of a pizza waiting in my fridge.

I ordered it a week ago when I couldn’t write.

I’m sure it’s still good.

How long can you store pizza in a fridge?

That’s something they should put on the box.

It’s pretty important information.

Hold on.

After a quick internet search, I learned you should only store a leftover pizza for three to four days.

My poor stomach.

It makes sense.

It’s fucking melted cheese on sauce and bread. I can only imagine the bacteria that grows on that after a few hours. The article recommended freezing leftover pizza in tin foil and plastic wrap to extend the shelf life, but that’s a lot of work. And all due respect to pizza chains, but their pizza isn’t worth wasting tinfoil on.

Shit’s expensive.

Despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary, I think I’ll stick with my method of how long pizza can last.

It’s a simple process.

I examine the pizza.

I smell the pizza.

I cook the pizza.

In the microwave because it doesn’t deserve the oven.

I once again examine the pizza.

I smell the pizza.

I bite the pizza.

At any point during those stages I see or smell something funky, I immediately dump some extra garlic salt on the slice and add ten more seconds to the cook time.

Then I eat the pizza.

Who knew better about my body than me?

Scientists?

Data?

Marci the blogger from Delaware?

Ha!

I look at the clock.

It’s midnight.

I hit publish.

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