The Writer's Block

A Story by makoy

This is an experimental attempt to describe what happens when a person has a writer's block through a story.

He grabbed his pen. He always brings with it with him all the time. It’s comfortably kept in his pocket. He does this so that when there’s some good ideas to write he could easily jot it down on his small pocket notebook. Then, he went to his room. He looked for his writing pad"big brown, rectangular and a bit worn of constant use. It has been his friend for more than a decade, a great confidante. Then, he went to get his small kerosene lamp looking so elegant with its gold holder and adjustable screw on its neck and a rose-like top serving as a protector to the blowing of the wind now and then. He pulled the drawer of his cabinet and groped for the matchbox. Having a grip of what he’s looking for, he closed it with a shudder. He then took all his writing paraphernalia and went towards his own office by the library. He slowly gathered some air to breathe, closed his eyes, and blew a big release. He feels ready now. It’s writing time. He switched all the lights off and lit the kerosene lamp. It flickered and flickered slowly getting steadier and looking magnificent in a few seconds later.

Bador sat on his chair. It creaked as it received his weight marking of its several years of service. He then opened his notebook to the page where nothing was written on. He ran the pages through his fingers quickly. Truly, Bador has written a lot. He twirled the pen with his fingers again and again as if it was a batton. He stared at the ceiling"eyes not still. He glued his eyes back to the blank page and then scribbled these few words:

“It was an evening, a dreadful evening. The whole town of Alim had just surpassed another day of nightmare. There wasn’t any person you could see on the streets. People stayed in their houses very quietly. People did’t know how to survive the distress caused by the unending war between the bandits and the government troops. Not one wants to be involved or be killed in such an unfortunate plight. But there’s nothing to do to escape.”

Bador stopped writing. His pen was still at the last period of his written paragraph. He pressed it so hard that you could see his hands trembling with the force exerted. He looked up. He growled and in a snap, he detached the page. He slowly but forcefully crumpled the scratch. His eyes fumed. It was rather a semblance of disappointment.

Bador really likes to write. He wants to see his name on the byline of his own published works someday. Or rather, he wants to see his name and his works on the anthology of winners of a prestigious literary award-giving body in the Philippines. But he is always like this. He sets himself up ready for another pen-and-paper business but always get stuck somewhere midway, halfway, or even just at the beginning. He almost always gets good ideas to write but just couldn’t get things through. And today, he got that good feel to write and he worked on that opportunity.

Bador stared at the blank page before him again. He pounded his pen to the table again and again creating a slight thud. He patiently waited to catch another good idea to begin with until a sneaky smile was painted on his face. And he wrote:

“There was a man

A long-bearded man

And age sixty was he.

He lived in the mountains

Away from the barrio

And no one to him has see.

He was not from a tribe

And each day he strive

To live a life as it should be.

Hardly he see any man

For he has lived

All these years alone.

He is neither a hermit nor a shaman

But he has

A throne of his own.

One day he set his mind to explore

All the things

That lie from beyond.

With his worn out clothes

And a courage so strong

He reached the heart of the town.

Bador stopped writing for the second time. He suddenly lost his train of thoughts. He suddenly feels anxious. He questioned his ability again. He did not know what caused it. He did not know what broke his thoughts. He grinded his teeth and his strong mandible showed his agitation.

“And now, what? What’s next?” he thought.