Writer's Block

A young writer finds fame, and loses both his creativity and friends.

Writer’s Block

  My left palm squeezed the skin on my forehead. My Nails, untangling strands in the forest of black hair that had now taken residence on my scalp. I hadn’t combed in a while, I didn’t need to; Combing couldn’t change anything, my head would still remain a vacuum.

  I took a glimpse of the floor right beside me, kicking a piece of rumpled paper. One of the many rumpled pieces scattered around me that made an isle of me. I had always believed that success was a fundamental part of joy. I thought success was a good thing. I was convinced that my talent would bring me  happiness. Auntie Beatrice called it ‘The thing that would change our lives’, it did. It changed her’s�"she got a car. It changed mine�"I lost myself. 

  I was a young writer, a good friend, a happy person. That seemed like a long time ago, as I sat, puffing the roach I’d lit from the ash tray. I was corn for the press, they couldn’t pass up a chance to roast me. 

I looked at the joint, smiled and slowly dipped it into the tray. I used to lead a happy life. 'Used to', I became a celebrity. 

Everyone had a different theory on 'Ken's sudden inability to write'. Writer's Hub, that terrible blog claimed I was a fluke. My Psychologist blamed Pressure, Aunt blamed her enemies, Pastor attributed it to me ‘Falling away from divine plan’.

  After writing that Article that ‘shaped the Human mind’. I couldn’t pen any tangibility down. I hid this for a year, I'd written a lot of articles and books prior to this, I just kept recycling. 

What to do when I had exhausted all this recycled resources? Aunt had an answer for that, One that I didn't fancy. She'd found a young chap, She organized some essay competition and he had won.

  “His brain is wired like yours” She said as she tried imposing this boy on me.

Of course, I didn’t agree initially, but every new original piece I wrote was criticized heavily by everything that sat in front of a Laptop. They claimed I had lost my “creative touch’’. 

I had to succumb to her. Her plan worked, but only for a while. The stupid Brat became greedy, wanting his names on my articles. MY ARTICLES! He wrote them, but they were mine. MINE! The money was no longer sufficient to quench his greed, he thirsted my fame now. 

Of course, I couldn’t agree. He ran off, the stupid baby, into the ever open arms of the Press.

 It was never hard to write, I would just sit in my corner in our everything room and the words would come, like a cheetah attacking its prey. 

Now I had my own room, but the words never came. Maybe it was bad energy, you know they said opposite poles attract. Maybe my positive life didn't jell with the positive environment. 

Well, At least, I had my friends-- or did I? All my friends suddenly became inconsiderate, they claimed I had ‘changed’. 

Did they expect me to remain that squeamish boy? I was no longer nobody. My blog had over 500,000 readers. They didn’t understand that I couldn’t just come over to ‘chill’. 

NO! Money didn’t change me, I just grew up, and they remained kids. I loved them the same though but they grew jealous and all deserted me. 

  I gazed directly into my eyes, looking straight at the mirror right in front of me. I turned my face back to the book,

  “I will pen whatever comes to me now” I mumbled to myself. 

  It was going to come, the words…I was going to shame all my friends and foes alike. My pen remained at the same spot, no words came. I put the pen away.

  “The inspiration is almost here, maybe I just need another puff” I thought to myself as my fingers scavenged through the ash tray.

Author's Note

This story is fictional. What do you think about it?

Reviews

[Oveane]

I feel I can relate to this, even if it is fictional. Because I myself got into writing fan fiction, and as soon as I hopped into writing, the first story published, another, and another, I looked back to see that I had three stories, two of which were incomplete, and still are.

Hitting the 1,000 view mark didn't seem like enough to me. I wanted more, more, and more; until I could no longer keep up with myself. Until I would look into the mirror and not understand why my stories would be down voted, if no one would ever explain. I was one of those stupid brats that wanted to be noticed right away, and when I look at the stories with tens of thousands of views, I fell back, up and ran, only to return three months later with a new mindset.

I realized this: what do those tens of thousands of views matter if no one says anything? What do my 1,100+ views matter if I am not getting feedback as to what exactly I'm doing wrong?

If it takes as much force to down vote a story, than to up vote it, what I wasn't seeing is that most readers don't vote, review, comment, or write. They [feel]. And a [feeling] is hard to see, hard to visualize.

To stand up so high in the works of fame, yet it isn't seen that the viewers, as well as the shower, have their own lives to live as well. The only optimal world would be a scenario where reviews, ratings, up votes and down votes didn't exist at all. But then again, that would mean capitalism couldn't exist. It would attune more to communism- but, just as we value rewards and desires... to not be allowed any free will of our own would be devastating.

To not be able to speak for ourselves, rather than to have to follow the rules.

So. As long as a society like this exists... I docked down for some typos, and some rogue periods.

On the plus side, your character's emotion is not hidden. I do enjoy the idea of 'creating something, and you later realize that it isn't the world you intended to create.' We do indeed hold high expectations towards others, yet we ourselves don't pick ourselves up, because in all honesty, we don't know how.

But I will say, nothing we will have ever known can prepare us for the moments to arrive. It's only a matter on how much preparation you think you need to face said moment. And if you need a lot... then you certainly cannot trust yourself any more than you can trust the advice from anyone else.

[Ayomide Wayne]

One of the basic messages I wanted to convey while penning this was how ego-centrism can blind people. The character had lost his friends, lost his writing but was still prideful

[Dr. YumnaKay]

This is so relatable to me
A few months back I started on a novel but though the plot is made I'm unable to proceed. Don't know if I'll be able to.. Nice reading this☺