That strange place called the writer’s block
An imaginative situation of a writer
The smell of bacon wafted through the room. The figure on a bed placed smack in the middle of the room, shifted slightly. It wasn’t the aroma that woke him up though. Sunlight cheerfully sifted through a horrendous looking window drape. The room was getting warm. The figure moved one last time and finally decided to ditch the blankets. He got up, still dazed by the previous night’s brawl at the alley; or was it the night before that? He lightly slapped his forehead resolving never to drink that much again(probably for the fourth time that month). He had lost count on how many times he had had been drunk.
The smell of bacon led him to a rather small, yet functional kitchen. His friend was busy plating it up.
“Wow! Somebody remembered to wake up! I thought you would become the next sleeping beauty; although, ‘beauty’ would be an overstatement.” He said, as he lay the plate on the table.
“How long was I out?”
“A day and a half to be exact. Do you even remember what happened? It’s lucky we got out alive.”
“What?”
“Yeah! There were two casualties, unfortunately.”
“What are you talking about? What the hell happened?”
“You don’t remember a thing? Not even the person who you accidentally shot in the leg?”
“WHAT THE HELL? I did what…? Dude, bring me up to speed!”
“Wow! Alright, hear me out, because you NEED to know this. This is exactly what happened….”
The writer got up from his chair. He stretched himself letting out a small, yet satisfying grunt. The thing that all writers fear the most had occurred to him too. A first-hand encounter with writer’s block.
The moment writers reach this stage, they automatically switch to the self introspection mode. The young writer followed suite. He thought about how perfect the beginning to his story was. He then pondered on what might have led him to this situation. Events from his life began flashing in front of his eyes in a cinematic way. He waved it away and put it off for a later time. Now, he had to think. He had to think on how he could take the story forward.
‘The protagonist had had a little too much booze and caused a ruckus in an otherwise silent bar.’ He shook his head quite vehemently. It was way too a simple plot. Not to his liking. He needed something more… something grand! So he continued thinking again.
‘The protagonist and his friend had gone to close a drug deal and things went haywire from that point.’ He grabbed his scribbling pad and jotted down this plot. It seemed pretty convincing. After a moment or two of staring down at his scribbling pad, he struck it off. If this had been the plot, then the two characters wouldn’t be eating bacon and eggs that casually. Not with the police who would definitely be hot on their tails.
In a similar fashion, he thought about a few more plot ideas. After an hour or so, his workplace was littered with crumpled papers. Apparently, none of them had worked. Frustrated, he poured himself a glass of wine. While looking out the window, moments from his life flashed before him again. This time though, he did not wave them off.
He remembered the time when he would read his brother bedtime stories. He would stay in his room till he is fast asleep and would creep out as quiet as a mouse. His mom would be fast asleep on the couch. Dinner would be at the table, waiting for a dad who loved his work more than his family. That dinner usually ends up in the trash the next day. He could clearly sense his parent’s marriage failing. He visualized a huge crack dividing his mom and dad. He could see it getting wider by the day. His parents were thus usually emotionally unavailable for his brother and himself. But he pitied his brother more than himself. His brother was born with a serious breathing disorder. He thus took on the responsibility of a parent-figure to his brother. Soon enough, just as he had guessed it, his parent’s marriage had run the length and they decided to call it quits.
The writer shook his head, though this time, out of grief. This was getting him nowhere. He looked around. The evening was quiet- just the perfect setting any writer would wish for. He did not want to waste this. There was so much going through his head, it seemed like a carnival in there. His brain managed to hook onto one specific, memory despite his disapproval to do so. He remembered the time that actually made him a writer in the first place. Unlike a majority of the writers who took to writing out of love for the art, he had done so for a wholly different reason. He still remembers the joy his brother used to have whenever he read stories of ‘giants of faraway lands’, or of vampires lurking in the shadows. The story-telling didn’t stop as time went on though. As his brother aged, so did the stories. They matured. He still remembers that joyful expectation his brother would have when he leaves a story off at a cliffhanger. Especially when it’s a wonderful crime story. After his brother’s demise, he resolved to spread that happiness through words. Through his own words. He became a writer.
Something clicked at that moment. He shook off all thoughts of his past. His mind was suddenly clear and a sense of calm filled his entire body. He could feel it energizing him. Gulping down the last bit of wine left in the glass, he sat down with renewed vigour. The cursor remained at the position where he had last left it, happily blinking away. He felt it was taunting him. As if answering to the taunts, he selected the entire text that he had written and moved it to another page. He began typing again,
On a silent evening, a young writer was busy penning down on what he felt would be the perfect novel. A mix of emotions, action, failure and finally, a much deserved success. The perfect recipe for a bestseller according to him. Except for the occasional honking in the distant, the surrounding was otherwise very silent; Just the setting that writer’s would wish for.
‘The smell of bacon wafted through the room.’ The young writer typed.
The figure on the single bed that was smack in the middle of the room, shifted slightly. It wasn’t the aroma that woke him up though. Sunlight cheerfully sifted through a horrendous looking window drape. The room was getting warm. The figure moved one last time and finally decided to ditch the blankets. He got up, still dazed by the previous night’s brawl at the alley; or was it the night before that? He lightly slapped his forehead resolving never to drink that much again(probably for the fourth time that month). He had lost count on how many times he had been drunk….’
As he was penning down his novel, he hit upon the thing that most writer’s fear. A writer’s block. It wasn’t long before incidents from his life flashed before him….
Now the writer was clear. He knew how to stitch the two ideas together and make it into a story. He wanted to express his love for his brother and he wanted to do so through his words. He wanted to make people out there contented when they read his book. He imagined a boy reading out stories to his younger brother. He imagined them having the time of their lives doing so. The writer continued typing in the words that now seemed to flow from his brain to his fingers. He wanted to express his brother’s love through his writing and he did just that.
After all, he was a writer…
