The Frustration of Writing

a short story of a familiar concept all writers have had: finding an idea this is my first story i have posted on this website, so please, tell me what you think! xoxo, Heather

The four white walls my room provides me with are great to stare at for a blank, fresh mind. The white color masks all of the other thoughts that you had throughout the day for awhile, providing a fresh canvas for your mind to completely forget everything else. the gears in your brain start to rev, the blood of your creativity starts to flow.
white walls are fantastic for a writer.
not to mention i always favored simple things. I am unique enough as is.

However, today the white walls of my room frustrated me as i searched high and low, left and right, and every corner and crevice of my brain for inspiration. Not any inspiration, but inspiration I knew I had, but couldn't seem to find. Little bits and pieces of sentences that could make paragraphs, and paragraphs that could make pages had been floating around in my crowded thought space for ages now, appearing when I drifted off into another world in Algebra, and hiding when I sat down in my extremely comfortable swivel chair in front of my laptop. The whole thing wasn't fair at all, to be honest.

I glared at the wall across from me as i sat still in my swivel chair, something i did- as well as the rest of the entire human population- very rarely ( don't you dare tell me you sit still in a swivel chair, because the whole world knows you're lying ), muttering words of frustration. "how can it be that hard to piece together a story? not to mention, a story that has been brewing in your mind for months?" i mumbled to myself. If someone walked into my room at this moment, they would most likely think I was insane. I find talking to yourself a typical habit for a writer. Especially a frustrated one.

I wished that everything would come to me at once; All the words and paragraphs would slap me across the face so hard that they would make me spin around in my swivel chair. Personification would be lovely right now, for I wasn't in the mood to be Sherlock Holmes when these ideas came to mind and that attitude hadn't changed. I would much rather be the Queen from Snow White, and have my plain white wall be the mirror that answered all my questions. For example: Oh mirror mirror that is my wall, why are my ideas so bloody small?

Wait a minute.
what if my white wall was the answer?
I jumped up from my swivel chair and walked six feet over to my blank wall. I studied the wall so carefully that inspectors from around the world would be impressed. touching the plaster gingerly, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I cleared my mind almost instantly, making room for my thought space that now came almost instinctively. Slowly, little ideas began popping up in what i imagined a large thought bubble above my head. They were still only, Fragments, beginnings but no ends...

That was it.
my eyes shot open and i smiled triumphantly, a bubbly feeling in my heart as i glided back to my swivel chair. The ideas in my mind for the past few months were beginnings, small things not to be over thought about. the bare bones of an elaborate story. The idea that had been lurking in my mind was so familiar that I had not even considered it.
They were my four white walls.

Reviews

[wkbooker]

White isn't a color. I do like the idea, although the voice is lacking. Perhaps a change of word choice would aid in establishing the diction.

[Heather H.]

thank you for your constructive criticism. I will take your suggestions into mind.

[joshua deathdealer]

A revelation of a story. Well written and fresh. I enjoyed it. Keep it up.

[Heather H.]

thank you very much :)