Facing Writer’s Block? Just Turn Your Table.

Sitting at the table in his tiny writing room, he stared out. Out at the building that screamed ‘Writers’ in bold.

He was facing writer’s block.

He gnawed at his pen thinking what to write. He started:

‘The cloud above moved like a warrior ship, carrying its own fleet of soldier clouds behind in trail.’

Not happy with it, he ripped the sheet. Gnawed at the pen again to notice that he had chewed off the head beyond recognition.

He flipped his notebook page and wrote again:

‘…she thought, and she walked…’

‘Where did she walk? Huh! Whoever thought I could be a writer!’ he screamed.

How could he overcome this stifled feeling? He was not able to pour out words like he always did.

‘Why is this happening to me?’ he yelled.

‘Am I constipated? Does constipation have anything to do with the head and thoughts coming out of the head? Yes, that was correct. Constipation can appear north too. I should eat prunes’ he talked to himself.

Probably, it was the impending eclipse he had read about that was clouding his mind.

‘Am I going mad? How can an imminent eclipse cloud my mind? Should I see a doctor? Or a therapist perhaps?’

He wanted to check if his fears were true. He needed to be ‘online.’

Turning on his laptop, he googled ‘Does constipation cause writer’s block?’

Google didn’t answer his curiosity.

He googled again ‘Does solar eclipse cause writer’s block?’

Not happy with the results again, he remembered what his friend Ken had told him long back: ‘Writing is a tough job. Making money writing is like hoping to build a house in the interplanetary cosmic space.’

Where was this friend? A strong impulse overcame him, and he wanted to check where this friend was currently living in. Logging in to Facebook, he figured out that three more friends had been out for lunch together, his ex was happy pouting away against a wild backdrop, his neighbor’s kid had broken a window glass, someone was actually looking for laxatives, his mom’s uncle was extremely unhappy that prices of red onions had increased, and there was burning news that a federal minister had been accused of poaching a rare species of guinea pig. He scrolled up to see the pout of his ex again. Was she married by now? Oh, that reminded him of his friend Ken. He had logged in to find out where Ken was!

Probably he had forgotten that Facebook doesn’t let you go. Facebook is a conscious stream of subconsciousness that entangles you in itself. It just doesn’t let you go.

He remained logged on for about 45 minutes to finally realize that he was probably not doing enough in his own life unlike his extremely social friends. Changing gears, he got on Twitter to see what was trending in the world that he was so detached from!

Above all, he was like a hermit, loving his craft, and living in extreme solitude that none of his online social friends would ever understand.

Was it lunch time? Yes, it was. Twitter somehow made him hungry. He slammed down the laptop and looked out of the window thinking of a sandwich.

‘Writer’s Block’ written in bold. Right in front of him.

Oh, he was supposed to write. It was afternoon already, and he had got nothing down on his paper. Not a word.

He chewed and chewed his pen again. He was unhappy. He was unhappy. He was unsocial. He couldn’t write. Finally he scribbled:

‘The Super Yogis. Why they tell you to turn your table away from Writers’ Block.’

That was all for his morning session.

If you’ve liked this flash-fiction on writer’s block, do recommend it so others can read it too!