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No characters, no story plot, nothing.

Where was my creative streak? Where was it hiding? I could feel it inside me, vibrantly bustling in my head. But when I tried to make sense of it, when I placed the tip of my pen against paper, it vanished.

It felt like my mind was playing a cruel jest on me. It sensed my longing, my desperate need, to write, so it stopped my creative thoughts in their tracks. Locked them up into the obscurest corners of my mind where I could not find them. Like a rabid dog confined in a tiny cage, I could feel them raging, attempting to free themselves. It gave me a migraine.

I came to the conclusion that I had come down with something all writers dread: Writer’s Block. No, I thought, this could not do. Immediately, I began the hunt of the cure. I went out for a brisk run, hoping that the pretty scenery would spark some creativity. Five miles later, my legs and lungs insisted that running wasn’t the antidote. So I came home and relaxed my sore muscles in a hot bath. The warm water felt heavenly, and I had to stop myself multiple times from dozing off. Eventually, the water began to cool and my body began to shiver. I forced myself out of the tub and wrapped myself in the pink towel which was bunched up in a ball on the bathroom tile. A hot bath wasn’t the cure, either.

I spent an excruciating three days and four nights locked up in my dark room, depriving myself of sleep and eating nothing but the stale chocolate chip granola bars I found in my desk drawer while I was searching for a pen with ink. I was determined not to leave until I had something written down. I could scarcely finish a sentence, let alone a paragraph. I crumpled up all of the papers sitting on my desk and threw them in the trash, unable to stand the sight of the choppy writing, the undeveloped characters and the incomplete plots. The pile became so high that there was no more room in the trash can, so they littered the wood floor instead. I stormed out of the room in frustration, breaking my useless pen in two on the way out. I still have ink stains tattooed on my fingers.

I gave in to the protests of my neglected stomach and decided to drive the nearby bakery in search of a couple of apple fritters. Along the way, I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel to the songs on the radio, but they were all so similar and meaningless that I could not find any inspiration from them.

I strolled inside the bakery, welcomed by the smell of the freshly baked bread. The young man at the counter was too handsome not to strike up a conversation with, so we leisurely chatted about useless topics such as the unusually scorching weather these past few weeks until a rather impatient line formed behind me. So I left a generous tip and walked out of the building with my apple fritters.

I sat outside at an empty table on the bakery’s patio, setting the bag out in front of me. Seated at the table next to me was a round man with a donut. The jelly oozed out of the back and painted his hands a purplish-pink. His mouth was wide open in a huge smile and his eyes contained so much joy you would think it was the best thing on the entire planet Earth. I couldn’t help but giggle at the peculiar scene. I guessed that the small things in life could be the greatest.

Abruptly, I felt a burst of creativity, a spark of inspiration. I threw my half-eaten fritter back into the bag and hurried off to my car, not forgetting to thank the donut man. The expression he gave me was priceless.

I drove home going exactly twelve miles per hour over the speed limit, but I did not plan on stopping for any cops. I even went through a stop sign or two; nothing was going to stop me. As soon as I got home, I hopped out of the car and seized the nearest pen and piece of scrap paper, which happened to be an ad for the middle school cheerleader’s carwash. The creative flow inside of me assured a brilliant piece.
All I had to do was write it down.
I placed the tip of my pen against the paper.


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renthead96 said...
Aug. 8, 2011 at 10:34 am
Wow! Your writing is very descriptive and it flows naturally well. This story captures the dread of writer's block that us writers face every once in a while, and the irony is that you actually created a story from your writer's block. That's creative. My only criticism is that, even though after buying the apple fritters the narrator had a spark of inspiration, the trip to the bakery seemed a bit random. However, it was important because the narrator finds inspiration to write afterwards. Anywa... (more »)
.Izzy. replied...
Aug. 8, 2011 at 11:16 am
Thanks for the feedback!
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