Writer's Block This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

   A white piece of paper stares up at me. The clock seems to take on a life of its own, ticking away the seconds slower and slower. A few scribbled-out words are all I have to show for half an hour of work. I know that I should have started this assignment earlier, but the task had seemed so large and unmanageable that I couldn't even think of doing it without getting a headache.

I begin to write, give up and scribble the word into oblivion. What should I do now? I look up at the clock. Only nineteen hours and twenty-five minutes until the work is due, and I don't have a single idea.

I sigh loudly and shift my feet. I realize I am staring at nothing and decide nothing is more interesting than most people give it credit for. Tired of nothing, I decide to try looking at something for a change. I find a lone ant traveling very slowly across the wall and decide to watch that.

I try and try to think of something to write about, but nothing seems right. I know I should get up and search for some inspiration, but I'm not in the mood for moving. The end of the pen I had been chewing on collapses and adds an air of surprise. I change the position of the pen and begin to chew it back into its original shape.

I look at the clock. Only five minutes since the last time I looked. Make that nineteen hours twenty minutes until this thing is due and still not an inkling of what to do. I realize that my foot has fallen asleep and I envy it. I debate whether or not to move it from its present position, therefore having that delightful tingling sensation. I move it. After getting over my foot's protests at having been so rudely awakened, I look back toward where my ant was. Sadly, it has disappeared. Inspiration strikes! Maybe I could write about the life of an ant. That feeling quickly dissipates, and I realize the idea was too silly anyway.

Thoroughly disappointed, I glance back at the clock hopefully. Nineteen hours fifteen minutes and counting. I have absolutely no ideas. I imagine myself ripping the clock off the wall and tearing it into a million small plastic pieces and scattering them over a wide area.

The silence becomes overwhelming. I think I must do something to relieve the tension. I sigh again, this time in an extremely loud and exaggerated manner.

"Write about something you know," my teacher says. Right now I know about writer's block. I begin to write. c

This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.

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