The Writer’s Anguish

Two days with no work done and the Writer fidgeted in his seat. As every lifeless, malformed sentence hit the page, he deleted it, painfully aware of its faults. The Writer’s face contorted as an attempt to grasp a newborn idea which tentatively stepped from the darkness into his empty head failed. He crafted two more lines and read them back three times before deeming them worthless and scrubbing them from existence; leaving nothing but a white page. He tried to summon a half-decent idea before reaching for a superior book in search of inspiration. The Writer wondered why his brain wouldn’t function to its full capacity, thinking of articles and stories he’d previously written and the praise they had gained. The way the structure of the tales flowed, deep and poetic, as they fell onto the page with imagery that formed beautifully detailed descriptions which the Writer had created. He pondered as to why the powerful entities of space and time refused to let him write works like those presently, as he struggled for ideas.

The Writer wished he could form worlds with complete plots and histories; he needed to write stories full of humour and magic which came alive and ran free within his mind, but all that remained in the Writer’s head were the bones of an article which lay untouched in the cave of his imagination.

He moved from his desk, exhausted by his own inability as the kettle boiled and held his head in an attempt to settle his frustrated mind.

The Writer returned to his work, completely drained, as his diversion to yet another story failed and his deserted consciousness echoed with the screams of long-dead tales.

He sat before an empty page struggling with the lack of creativity, biting his nails as the day drew to a close; the darkness draping itself across the Writer’s desk.

He had lost a furious battle with his creative mind after another day of lacklustre writing. He dragged himself up the stairs and into his bed as a terrible conflict began within his head. He asked why and what if, as he attempted to work out where his failures had emerged. He thought about every word and went over each paragraph repeatedly before finally resting.

The very second the Writer’s head touched the pillow, his brain came alive with thoughts and ideas to fill the empty pages. Characters and storylines sprang to life, whispering poetic dialogue that cried out to be written. Metaphors and imagery flowed from every corner of the Writer’s head compelling him to abandon his bed and create.

He wrote into the early hours of the morning, paying no attention to the time or his surroundings. The Writer crafted his tale in its entirety writing every idea which had previously evaded his imagination. He had regained his literary skill, and as everything else around him awoke to start a new day, the Writer slept a deep and triumphant sleep with his head resting upon his desk.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s