Reheated Coffee

October 12, 2011
By Anonymous

A shaft of light seeped through the dusty blinds and illuminated my notebook. I could see millions of specks of dust gliding through the light. I rolled out of bed and dragged myself to the desk. I pulled out the chair, mustering up enough strength to pull myself and to push away the drowsiness that was nagging me. Noting that I could barely make out the small scribbles on my notebook, I rubbed my eyes to restore clarity. I assembled my supplies: pens, pencils and oodles of paper.
My pen touches the paper, eager to print the next word. But before the eager little pen got its chance, my stomach tugs at me letting me know that it needs to refuel. I glanced up at the digital clock. The clock read 10:23 AM in a ghostly blue. Reluctantly, I lifted my sluggish body and moved myself through the mass destruction of a room. I headed down the hall and into the kitchen, rubbing and patting my face as I trudged along, making effort to wake myself up. I slid into a chair with a reheated cup of coffee. I grimaced. I grimaced at the thought of not having even an ounce of creativity. It all slipped away last night after I jotted down the last thought in Chapter Thirteen.
Writer’s Block. Perhaps the greatest obstacle for a writer. Besides the persistent deadlines…
I wonder…I wonder if the greatest writers the world has ever seen ever had this troublesome dilemma. Of course they have…like William Shakespeare or Edgar Allan Poe or Jane Austen. Right? As I sat there at the kitchen table, the image of a frustrated Renaissance playwright, or mysterious poet having troubles with his dark tales.
A smirk replaces my glum expression as I think about some of the world’s best writers struggling with their pieces. However, the smirk doesn’t last long before it slips away and is replace by an expression disgust and repulsion. The cruel black elixir swished in my mouth. I should have considered fresh coffee. I swallowed hard and gagged. I sat there as I sputtered out the remains of the stale liquid.
As I made a fresh pot of coffee, the creativity suddenly broke through the barrier in my mind. The color of realization gushed out. Chapter 14 was now clear. I poured myself a cup of fresh coffee. As the Colombian Decaf Blend goodness slid down my throat, the aroma filled the air. Perfection.

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