Writer’s Block

L.E. Ataire
Mar 24, 2017 · 2 min read

Janis sat with her laptop on her lap suffering one of the worst bouts of writer’s block in history. It was surpassed only by an unfortunate incident in 1952 when Hemingway found himself sober, and that tragic case experienced by a young Saxon monk in a time when accuracy wasn’t all that important.

Every idea that popped into her head was trite, mundane, overdone, dull, and cliche. Her prose was lacklustre, generic, and awkward. And her grammar… it was if her brain had a personal vendetta against English teachers everywhere and sought to compose each sentence in a way that might make them lose the will to live.

Perhaps, her muse was mad at her. That might be it. She’d done something to upset the brilliance that on occasion graced her with exciting things to think about. Tapping her finger lightly on the U key, Janis tried to recall what offence she might have committed. But being a foolish human her mind only flitted back and forth between nonsense before finally thinking about cake.

“Perhaps I’ll write a story about cake,” she said aloud in hopes the idea would attract her inattentive muses attention. It didn’t. Janis got as far as ‘The cake was chocolate. I like chocolate’. before she ran out things to write. She huffed, quickly tapped backspace until the silly words were gone and apologised under her breath.

Staring at a blank screen was getting her nowhere. Action was needed. Janis rose from the couch with a sudden vigour and placed her laptop on the coffee table. If her brain wanted to shuffle around cliches all night so be it! She’d dig deep into her cerebral database of rom-com gestures and find a way to woo back her dear muse. She’d blast love songs; the kinds with power ballads and lingering notes. She’d — her eyes lingered to the time — she’d figure it out tomorrow.

Janis leant over and closed her laptop. Yawning, she switched off the light and made her way down the hall by rote. Tomorrow, she thought as she climbed into bed. I’ll have to make sure my muse feels appreciated.

“I already know,” said the muse as Janis closed her eyes. “Sweet dreams, you silly thing.”

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