We All Get Writer's Block

Writer's Block is the greatest of inspirations. Was that an oxymoron or a paradox?

  'Writer's block is stupid; It is, It REALLY is! I usually have such great ideas, but no motivation, but then, the second motivation hits, my idea well dries up. It's stupid, and I hate it and I wish it didn't happen.' 

  The seething Girl glared at the words She'd typed into the word processor window. She ground her teeth in frustration at this momentary flare of useless writing after what felt like hours of staring at her computer screen. Her anger left quickly though, and She instead sighed in annoyance. Even this enraged burst of typing stopped at a paragraph, Her own feelings not amounting to more than three run-on sentences. She'd meant to write something, anything, that wasn't THAT. 

  She glared at her hands, wishing they'd obey Her and spill Her mind onto the virtual page where now only that paragraph and that mocking blinking icon now stood. With this stupid writer's block, needless to say She'd been glaring at things a lot lately. 

  She was determined to work through this, maybe She'd write some introspection. Probably of a character She'd never really get around to naming, let alone give real traits too. Just a faceless puppet on a string, if you thought about it. A puppet that She bounced around for Her own amusement.

  She'd wished She was dreaming, or rather in that odd place between the realms of (the living and the dead? is that where it was for Her?) the sleeping and awake. 

  The place where you feel like you're floating slightly above, rather than laying on, your bed as your mind drifts away from you. This is when the nonsense comes, pretending to be perfectly rational thought, and you carelessly let it because you've almost slipped away into sleep. No one wishes to break that calm. For a short time, you understand the rules of nonsense and can be a part of it. For a short time, nonsense makes sense. 

  This is the perfect world, She'd always thought, like Alice in Wonderland but you're a Wonderlander and 'impossible' is a concept not known to you. It's a beautiful source of inspiration.

  She wanted this world for Her own. The land of pre-dream delusions where you are still somewhat in control, but not bending to the rules of reality like daydreaming wished to. She craved it in Her soul and cursed all rational thought that came to Her then, because it always startled Her out. A sudden thought of 'that isn't possible' was like that brief fall you sometimes feel when you're going to sleep, and you hit your bed so hard your eyes snap open and you're left in the world of disappointments again.

  Ah, disappointment; Her old friend. Everything failed to meet Her expectations. Her creations were uninteresting and led pathetic, meaningless lives. They moved forward, barely, but only in the way wind-up toys do and she didn't care much for turning the keys for an entire race. Her and disappointment knew each other well.

  They, however, thought themselves wonderful and strong, despite their failings. This amused Her greatly, how they begged to differ and sometimes even proved her wrong. She liked them well enough She supposed. They have made great things, set up structures of metal and concrete to scrape the skies they were drawing closer to understanding everyday, showed the most beautiful acts of compassion and love, but also of greed and cruelty. Bad with the Good, you know? Can't avoid it. Black and White.

  'Every color shows better on this shade of dove grey, though' She'd thought once with a grin as She looked down on Her people with a microscope, watching a brother was pushing his sister on a swing. 'It's the color of love, such an odd thing that imperfect hearts would breed love!'

  The Artist sighed, once again looking at the page in front of Her. She shook Her head sadly as She deleted the paragraph, no good would come from so carelessly spilling Her thoughts onto a page. She glanced over the files on Her desktop. The story of this race and their brilliantly red past, beautiful in it's ugliness, but among the red the screen also was dotted with files of small stories of people even smaller. The people left mainly unnoticed. 

  A story of a teenage girl baking with her mom in a rare moment of angst-less childishness, A poem of a dying Storyteller having tea with Death or a frustrated diary entry of girl like Her; alone and typing a novel at ridiculous hours of the night. You know, adding other colors here and there.

  Maybe she wasn't ready for this game, wasn't ready to add layers to these people She'd thoughtlessly called up in Her selfish loneliness. She'd never thought of them before, she supposed She should start. Sometimes, she'd look towards them and find some splattered with color, color she had not put there. Green and purple and blue and yellow. This also amused her, maybe they were not so much as puppets after all. It saddened her to see red, though. At least in the way she most often saw it.

  'They'd do well enough alone, I think. Cut their strings and they'd still build their walls and splash their colors. Maybe they'd mix then, mix and make grey and everything will be brighter.'

  And with a grin She decided that is what exactly what She'd do, She closed the window and cut Her strings and wished them Love and Bright and Grey.

  Then God went off to find Her pre-dream delusion world in peace.

Author's Note

My first piece written with a website called '750words . com'; a site which encourages you to write 750 words per day using badges and awards. They also go through your piece afterwards and analyze it's mood, vocabulary, etc. It's a pretty cool site, you should check it out!

Reviews

[Scott Mou]

I enjoyed this story (or non fiction in my case) because i relate hevily with it. Somedays i can finish entire stories in a day and sommmme not so much

[Sara]

This was fun to read :)
I came here accidentally--like i do most things but the first two lines sucked me in.