Writer’s Block

Hands smeared in ink – worn like war paint. Sleeves rolled up. I take a deep breath. Turn the page in my notebook…

Nothing happens.

Blame it on wrong tactics.

I move from the chair. Try sitting on the floor. Better.

My pen makes contact with paper…

Still nothing.

Maybe I need fresh air.

I move to the balcony. Nah, this won’t work. Too much noise.

I move again from the sofa to the bed to my desk to the counter top to the sill to the front steps… NOTHING WORKS.

Maybe I should change my weapon of choice.

I try the ballpen. Fountain pen. Black ink. Blue ink. Green ink. Pencils. I switch notebooks. Try different paper. Different pattern. Different texture.

Then I go back to my laptop.

I sit in front of the screen and stare at the blinking cursor.

Hours go by. And still nothing.

I let out an annoyed groan, impatience taking the better side of me.

This used to excite me. The blank page was my canvas, an opportunity for my imagination to show off. I would type like mad until my fingers were numb or my pen would scratch against the paper until my wrist couldn’t take it.

Now frustration took passion’s place. Every creative attempt is a battle. It’s exhausting.

I yawn, feeling the tiredness take over. It’s way past midnight—time to lay my arms down for the day.

I leave the battlefield and march off to the bathroom, strip of my clothes and step into the shower. In there, I scrub my body inch by inch, as if writer’s block were something you could simply wash off.

And then, as if on cue, there it is. I pause and try to focus. It is a faint voice, a shapeless form-something I’m not quite sure of-but I grab onto it and refuse to let go.

“Don’t you dare disappear!” I yell at my own thought and almost start to panic. They come and go unannounced-these random rushes of inspiration-and don’t last for long. At times like these, I curse the world for not coming to my rescue with an invention of a waterproof notebook that wouldn’t let any of my ideas escape.

I turn off the shower, grab a towel and storm out of the bathroom, dripping water everywhere. I slip and nearly kill myself on the way, but I somehow manage to steady myself and get to my desk in one piece.

Terror washes across my face when I discover my notebook’s not there. I rummage through my drawers in search of a piece of paper, a Post-it note, even a stupid tissue—anything to write on—but after scattering my stuff in the most random places all around the house, nothing’s to be found.

UN-FREAKING-BELIEVABLE.

I scan the room and try to locate my phone, but there’s no sign of it either.

ARGH! Should’ve trusted my mother when she said my messiness would one day collect its toll on me. Why can’t I ever keep anything in the right place?!

When my desperation reaches its highest level, I retrieve a pen and try to write on my arm. No success. My skin’s still too wet from the shower. In the meantime, I forget that I need at least one hand to hold the towel and it falls to the floor, to the satisfaction of anyone watching my spectacle from a window across the street.

Cursing under my breath, I bolt to the next room and sit back down in front of the computer. I wait in pure agony for the damn thing to start up.

“Come on!” I shout at the welcoming screen. As soon as it disappears, I open a new document and finally, FINALLY, my fingers hover above the keyboard and

.

.

.

Yeah, you guessed. Nothing.

My mind is as blank as the white page staring back at me. I listen for the voice in my head, but it’s silent. The idea, whatever it was, is now gone forever.

I swear the cursor blinking at the top of the page looks like it’s laughing at me.

“Oh, shut up,” I cover my face with my hands. I leave the room, defeated once more, making a mental note to always sleep the computer instead of turning it off, have my phone glued to me at all times and buy at least ten more notebooks and stack them all around the house.

“The war’s not over,” I say through gritted teeth.


I really hate that writer’s block gets another post dedicated to him. I thought I ended that relationship…

This piece was inspired by last week’s Just Smudges and, well, my own miserable combats.

On a brighter note, I finally got my hands on The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron and I’m super excited to read it and, hopefully, learn from it.

I’ll do my best to post more often, promise!

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9 Comments Add yours

  1. Drunk Off Rhetoric says:

    Haha, I loved this post! I feel like this has been happening to me lately, no inspiration when I actually make the time to write, but when I’m busy somewhere else – work, school, looking at the wall, etc… – like clockwork the ideas start to flow.
    Thank you for sharing!

    1. mrsreckless says:

      I think we’ve all been there. Thank you for stopping by and reading!

  2. afthead says:

    Where do you get that soap. Mmmm, vampires!

    1. mrsreckless says:

      Haha, I wish I knew!

  3. everyday shelvie says:

    Nice post! And yes of course we’ve all been there before, and the fact that you actually write about it declares your victory over the block, right?
    Good luck! 🙂

    1. mrsreckless says:

      Yes, I guess that’s true 🙂 Thank you!

  4. leigha66 says:

    This was great! We’ve all been there.

    1. mrsreckless says:

      Thank you for reading! 🙂

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