I Am A Writer, But I Don’t Write Anything

A Story by Mad Mezi

this is

I couldn't write anything. I wouldn't write anything. I should've wrote at least something, I thought.

I put the pen down and thought for a moment. I thought about her. What she was thinking, what she was doing, who she was doing it with--I stumbled.

My elbow had slid off the desk and my chin nearly hit the wood. I had been leaning forward too much, stuck in thought about her, and about her thoughts.

I picked up the pen again.

My mind was trying to figure out how to properly write about her. She was a person of details. You couldn't write anything like her unless you included a lot of details.

I remembered a lot about her. She had short, auburn hair. She had freckles on both sides of her nose. She had a fine chin and a nice smile. She was skinny, but tall. Pale, but glowing. But I couldn't remember any details.

Things like her character, or her color. She had personality, but I couldn't describe it beyond just the word. Did she have dreams? Did she have fears? Nothing.

I hadn't written anything in hours. My a*s was getting sore. I thought I had something to write about, something in her that was infinitely interesting. But there was nothing. Why had I ever loved her?

Oh, wait. That's it, I thought. I put the pen to paper and managed to scribble the first letter of her name before giving up. That wasn't it.

I couldn't remember why I loved her. Then I thought about how we did used to love. But then I realized that maybe we hadn't loved at all. This made me very frustrated; more frustrated than having writer's block.

Had I been so obsessed with the idea of love that I confused its concept with its reality? I so desperately thought I had been trying to write about someone I had loved, but perhaps that was not true. Did I ever really love this person? Did I know them? Did this person even exist?

I picked the pen up again.

I had found the details. I made it through an entire line this time until I crumpled up the paper and threw it away. I was still missing something.

My head fell to the desk. Why am I even a writer? I moaned. I sighed. It had been hours.

I played with my fingers. Then I decided that was ridiculous so I grabbed the pen to play with. At least having an object in my hand made me feel somewhat sane.

What had she done? I thought about all the memories I had, trying to reason with myself about why writing about her was the only thing I could write about.

And then the irony came to me upon realizing that I hadn't written anything. S**t.

I got up. I looked around the room, then looked down at a stack of blank paper. I took another sheet and laid it in front of me. And for once, I wasn't thinking about her. I wasn't thinking about anything.

I picked the pen up again.