Yet pleased as he was, his work was not finished. The piece itself was complete, yes. And it was beautiful. However, the mahogany block had a foreordained purpose, a destiny set from the start that it must fulfill.
The carpenter leaned into the side of the block and began to push it across the room and out the wide open door of his shop, where he then proceeded down the path that lead through the village and up out of the valley.
As the path grew steeper the carepenter only worked harder, pushing and shoving with all his might. He wedged and wiggled and walked the block up the through the hills, never taking a pause for respite. Finally the path relented and began to plane off. The carepenter then guided the block to the edge of a precipice where he faced a sheer drop into the gorge below. Without hesitation and with one final grunt of exertion, the carpenter pushed the mahagony block over the side of the cliff. It fell through the air rather gracefully, almost deliberately -- only to land on the writer who puzzled beneath the willow tree below.
Satisfied, the carpenter returned home and immediately sought after another piece of mahogany.
Writer's block hurts.