Eight-legged writer’s block
Nothing else quite paralyzes me with fear than a good old, big, ugly spider.
The one pictured here is a spider that sunned itself one morning on a tree log near my potted mums.
The spider I had my husband take care of days before was near my trash can in my home office.
“That was big,” he said, after I screamingly asked him to hurry into the room to get the spider.
I can’t write with spiders nearby.