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The Evils of Writer's Block

I ran my fingers through my short, greasy, unruly brown hair, briefly closing my eyes. I had been working on that chapter for at least two hours now, and no good ideas were forthcoming. Groaning in frustration, I pressed my forehead against the cool, plastic keyboard of my silver laptop.

“Curse you, evil writer’s block!” I cried in desperation.

In my mind’s eye, I could see all the characters in their specified locations, frozen in time and waiting. Waiting for me to put the calloused pads of my tired fingers on top of the keyboard buttons and finish the epic tale that was their life. Yet my imagination was tired and well-used, and therefore refused to cooperate and spew forth any relatively good ideas.

Another groan escaped my parched lips as I slowly sat back up. The blinking of the writing icon haunted me, mocked me, laughing at my unimaginative predicament. Silently cursing its very existence, I slid my chair legs back and gently stood on my protesting legs.

I fingered the silver ring hanging at my throat, contemplating my villain’s next move. He was a complex character, utterly cruel, deceptive, and cunning, yet he could sometimes be surprisingly gentle. I sometimes found even myself amazed and slightly confused at his actions and words, wondering what on earth he was up to. But now was not the time for me to waltz over to him and ask, “What are you doing and why do you feel like doing it?”

Instead I walked quietly to my bed, and sat on the edge of the mattress. My eyes were as tired as my fingers, so I figured a brief nap would do both parts of my anatomy good. And so I slept, five hours of peacefulness and noiselessness. Until I sat straight up, wide awake, and gasped. “I know, I know!” I shouted.

Literally jumping from beneath my turquoise bed sheets, I raced to my laptop, nearly breaking both it and the chair, and began furiously typing. Fifty minutes later, my fantasy was over. Nearly half of my characters had died a slow, painful death, yet I was elated. I was past it, past the cruelest weapon in the world of writing, or any world for that matter: writer’s block. There was only one problem that remained: my story and the center of my life was over.
“Hm,” I said as I held my chin in my right hand, “maybe I can write an epilogue.”





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