The Writer's Block

A Story by walcottnguyen

A writer who suffered from writer's block decided to move into the most dangerous city of the country in hope of finding inspiration

I decided to move to this God-damned city in hope of reviving my writing career. I was an author; I had composed a few books that made it to the bestseller list. I made a few millions from them, but a combination of internet piracy, alcohol addiction, and gambling problems sucked me out from my comfortable life.

I tried to get back to my feet but so far the result was not good. I suffered from a thing called writer’s block, meaning that I lost the ability to come up with new things. While many writers overcame this, my brain could not even function properly because of my issues, let alone finding new ideas

I drifted from streets to streets, wishing that I stumbled on something that may help me make a sensational comeback. I carried on my meaningless days until one day; I sort of discovered my salvation. As usual, I walked from my soon-going-to-be-out apartment to a newsstand, surfing for anything interesting. As I was reading, a The Times caught my eyes. The column compiled a list of the most dangerous and lawless cities of the country. Then I thought to myself. If I lived in one of these cities, I would have endless crime-related inspirations. I bought the magazine and ran back to my place, preparing to depart.

I picked the worst city that, according to The Times, at least 43 crimes occurred daily. Because of the countless lawlessness, the police basically turned a blind eye and pretended nothing happened. If they witnessed one, they arrested the criminal, but if they did not, the law-breaking did not exist. People could not leave because they had no money. They stayed and prayed that they would not wake up with a bullet on their head.

I was almost penniless and had nothing to lose, so I set out hopeful for bright future. As a result of high crime rate, I rented an apartment for the price practically free. To prevent myself from being robbed and sponsor for my trip, I sold my laptop and brought a few clothes and an old-fashioned typewriter that I got from a yard sale.

My first night passed with four gunshots. The next morning I found out that my next-door neighbor’s son was killed in one of the violence. I offered her my condolence and listened to her memory about her deceased son but actually I just wanted to hear something useful for my writing. When I gathered enough details, I excused myself and went back to my room. Few hours later I penned the story. A teenager attempted to mug a Chinese restaurant to pay his mother’s hospital bill but ended up dead.

My good friend was an editor for the Chronicles. After giving her a call and sending her my work, she promised to publish my essay. Three days later my narrative was featured on second page of Sunday newspaper.

My tragedy was really well-received and touching that the readers demanded for more, thus I was guaranteed a spot on Sunday newspaper. Authoring short stories was not my intention at first but it was the first step of my long-awaited rebound, so I continued to write more

My everyday job was to wander around the neighborhood and pay attention to everyone’s miseries. With all the information, I next transformed them into works of art.

After a few months I became bored of it. Paychecks were just enough for my everyday needs, not abundant. Moreover, my name was still not largely recognized. I had to write a ground-breaking novel

I let my friend know that I would break in order to stimulate inspiration. One day as I was lazily laid on my apartment, watching TV, the police department reported about a series of murders. Must be really big that the police actually involved. I volumed up.

“Five officers have been killed in a week,” a middle-aged mustached sheriff, hands held a paper and a bunch of microphones pointed at him, read. “Apparently they seemed to be committed by the same person, as they all were slaughtered in the same way. One person witnessed that a guy wearing red hooded jacket left the area before she discovered the body. If you notice anything, please contact the police department.”

People die every day and you cops do nothing, now a few cops were slayed and you wanted to capture the criminal. The sheriff did not share anything else but after calling my editor friend, I was revealed that the hooded guy drugged the wandering cops before cutting their throats in a fashion so that instead of expiring immediately, they agonizingly and slowly suffered until they had no more blood to bleed.

With the knowledge gained, I knew what I shall do. Jumping to the old machine, I began to type. I created a detective who was after his long nemesis, the hooded serial cop killer.

Every morning I ran to the newsstand and bought every newspaper that talked about the police hater. I then added some ingredients to what the journalists wrote. Law enforcers kept turning up dead almost every day, and that was how my story was alive.

Possibly due to the high amount of murders, police now traveled in groups and more frequent. As a consequence of that, crime rate dropped dramatically. Some citizens declared him a maniac but others entitled him hero, if not for his murderous action, the police would never patrol and therefore lowering the lawlessness.

Their happiness did not last long. After two weeks, the throat cutter was busted while he tried to take out the bait. Thankful for the police but unfortunately for me, his saga was ended too early before I had the chance to conclude my book. I needed more length and more exciting details, not just a stupid guy fell into a trap that he should have predicted. Since his imprisonment, I underwent writer’s block again.

One night I strolled the city street, dreaming about my second lifesaver. And yes, I did. I saw a lone police officer urinating at a streetlight, his back facing me. I may not mention this before but I always carried a knife with me every time I was out in this city, for my own safety. I was afraid of gun, and my aim was pretty bad, at least in game, thus I did not want to mistakenly hurt someone. I silently approached the cop, and quickly used my hand to block his mouth. I did not wear a hood that night but as long as it was done in the same manner and no observer, who cared. I attended medical school for a period of time before dropping out, so I could estimate how deep the neck needed to be incised in order not to kill the victim right away.

I went home and cleaned myself up, knowing that tomorrow newspapers would give me ideas for my work of literature.