prose, story, writer's block
An author sits at his cramped wooden desk; pen in one hand, cigarette in the other. He stares at the mocking piece of blank paper that lies in front of him. He begins to ponder the disease from which he is suffering: writer’s block. What brings it on, he wonders. Is it preventable? More importantly, is it curable?
The man pushes these immaterial thoughts out of his mind. He has more important things to think about. He needs an ending, his deadline is looming. The past one hundred and thirteen pages came so easily, flowing directly out of his pen, out of his brain, out of his very soul, until suddenly, it stopped. Just stopped. Like a bus. The inspiration was gone. One hundred and thirteen pages, all building up to an ending that must be perfect. If it isn’t perfect, it’s nothing. For now, it is nothing. Every scenario that goes through his mind seems cliché and redundant. The ending cannot be tragic, that is too predictable. It can’t be happy either, that wouldn’t fit with the tone of the thing. It needs to be real. The man lets out a groan of frustration, and begins to pace across the grey tiled floor. His eyes travel around the room, searching every object in sight.
And now it comes to him. A flash of disbelief appears on his face, followed by a wry smile. He has his ending. It is the ideal mix of comedy and tragedy, the most original idea he’s had yet. Bittersweet. Perfect. He’s finally done it. All of the pain and anxiety is lifted from his shoulders, and there is nothing but himself and the pen. This is why he became a writer. This is the good life.
His intense concentration is broken by the sound of his telephone ringing. He hasn’t answered it for days. This time, though, he picks up. He immediately recognizes the smooth sound of his publisher’s voice: “Listen, don’t worry about the deadline. Turns out we’re going to have to pass on your book after all. Sorry for the inconvenience.” The man slowly places the phone back on the receiver, and reaches for another cigarette.