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.


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