Mitch stared blankly at the computer screen in a subconscious trance with which he had recently become more familiar with than he would like to admit. With more effort than should be required for such a simple task, he forced his fingers to the keys. After a bleak and boring six and a half minutes, this was the product of his effort.
Mitch was in no state to be doing such time-wasting, as he had a serious condition. One that could potentially ruin him. It would no doubt affect his life greatly as it was guaranteed to punch the metaphorical face of his career right in the kisser. Mitch had Writer's Block and, as a novelist, this was far from ideal. What's that, you say? A true novelist never gets Writer's Block? Utter those words within a mile of Mitch and he will have you flattened before you can spell "apology". Nobody dares question the great Mitch Lowenstein.
After having such great success with his Debut novel "The Devil's Harp" - a story of love between two people with contrasting religious beliefs - he was determined to make sure that his next piece of written art would run circles round TDH. Being an enthusiastic reader himself he hated it when his favourite authors failed to deliver. In his eyes it was a mortal sin. It was like kicking an old woman's Zimmer frame from her grasp, and then watching the woman fall to the ground which you had previously covered in jelly for both dramatic and humourous effect. And then recording it. And then sending it to The Times and blaming the President. And then spending all the money you got from the press on Hitmen who specialise in bunny rabbits and mothers. And then laughing about it. And, worst of all, starting a sentence with the word 'and'.
He simply hated it - just like he hated this rut that he was in. He had no choice but to shift this so-called block that was preventing his immense talent from seeing the world.
The forces of the universe must be working against him, he thought, trying to console himself. Mitch was a dramatic guy - a thespian. He had little time for things like phoning his mother or walking his neighbors' dog while they were away. Such tasks did not seem to have a great effect on the world anyway, he thought. He had far more potential.
That being said, Mitch still felt as though he needed that little bit of extra help to get new inspiration. He needed someone from outside the box to take him out there with them. Out to where everything was new and shiny and bright. Mitch needed his old friend Biz.
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