Writer's Block

It’s 5:25, according to the screen in front of me. The keyboard glares at me, in a mocking sort of way. It knows my mind is blank, and I myself know that I have the power to punch each and every one of the keys with my fingers…but it’s not as if I have the drive to do so.

But this was the battle I put myself in. I was the one who positioned myself in front of the computer, believing that creativity was on my side.

But it wasn’t. Any chance of a dream-fueled prodigy strumming away with every letter, every syllable, every word and sentence lining itself along a string were dashed almost as soon as I sat down.

There was no chance in the world I would end up with some beloved work adored by the masses, with my parents proudly displaying my hard-covered masterpiece on their coffee table and my fans starving for signed copies.

Yet, that’s a lofty dream. Perhaps too lofty…but it’s certainly ambitious enough to aim for.

I hum in thought, opening up a blank, white, digital document, with a small black line blinking every second. I have the advantage. The ultimate power to use the diction and syntax to at least form something legible is at my fingertips. I have no choice but to use up what I can muster…

The rain patters against my roof, as I

I then pause, soon deleting the eight, relatively short words. Oh, what was I saying? It wasn’t raining. It was as bright day outside…even if it was 5:47 PM, according to my laptop.

Wait-5:47? I’ve already wasted over twenty minutes?! Since when?

Where does time go? Does it run swiftly from its captive, having the inability to be tamed? It’s been millions of years since the evolution of humanity…and with seven billion people in the world, look at what

…No. STILL not right. I’m supposed to be writing a story. Not an informative essay. Besides, I wasn’t around for millions of years, obviously. I just celebrated my birthday, after all, right before yet another first day at high school…

For my birthday, I got a new laptop: a black, sleek Acer with a big screen half the size of my coffee table. I also got some new video games, and th

…

Wow. Welcome back to fifth grade English warm-ups, dear author, having to scrape the bottom of the barrel and thus subject yourself to writing about “the greatest gift you’ve ever gotten”. Oooh, where shall your creative, resonating mind take your astounding skills next? A brief documentation of one of the fondest things that occurred to you ever so recently?

This summer, I went to summer camp. We did the play “Grease” this year; I was Vince Fontaine in the play.

Oh, how SPLENDID! Using yet another writing prompt that you got the first day of school! Oh, PLEASE keep going!

The fox jumped over the log,
A lily pad’s the landing place for a frog,
That lives in the bog, far away from the smog,
Which is quite a few feet from the log.

Nonsensical poems? Why ever not? Unleash your imagination! You’re on the battlefront here! Give them your best!

The warm, crisp touch of air
Fills my very lungs.
Bird chirps,
A song unsung.
Tweet tweet. Tweet-y tweet tweet chirp chirp.
The essence. Oh sweet remedy,
Tweet…tweet…chirp-chirp.
Echoing through the core of th

…Wait. What are you even writing about?

I glare at my multiple “creations”. Nose scrunches, brows furrow, lips curl downward. Immediately my index finger meets the unforgiving, rectangular “Backspace” key. It’s painful, seeing that…

6:46…

An hour has passed since the beginning of this mental war. And during that time, my over-thinking has gotten the best of me. Writing about me. My summer. My gifts. My sheer nonsense of foxes and logs and tweeting that spawned from my mind and manifested into a mish-mash of grammatical fodder on the screen. No one wanted to read about such nonsense. People cared more about the actual work…not the author.

I haven’t lost my touch, have I? Was I even good to start with? …Why can’t I write anything?

Well, according to my parents, I’m “the greatest writer they know”. Well, when was the last time they met Stephen King or Kurt Vonnegut? The greatest thing I ever wrote was about hedgehogs and robots…and that fox and log poem wasn’t that terrible, neither.

I sigh once more. 7. It’s…7. And oh, what enriching progress I’ve made. I let my imagination “run rampant”, and I was left with a blank sheet, yet again, with the exception of the three questions…

And their answers.

You’re thinking way too hard, simply worrying too much.

You know you have supporters out there. Your family. Friends. What else could you ask for? STRANGERS across the world thinking that your work is decent enough to buy a copy of it?

I then stare at my last question, eventually coming up with its answer:

But you have. Granted, it wasn’t as great as expected, but it was SOMETHING. You can write about anything and it would be something…readable…

…

…Oh yeah? I type. Prove it.

…Fine.

I tap my fingers rapidly against the other side of my coffee table, exhaling. This is the last chance I’ll have for the night. I have to come up with something. To prove to myself that I can write something and wouldn’t give up that easily. Just…something…

Anything.

It’s 5:25, according to the screen in front of me.