Writer's Block

Writer’s Block

I’m staring at a blank page. I’ve been sitting here for days now, trying to find the right words for the right topic. No matter how many times I start- with a new blank page every time- it always ends the same way. A half-written paragraph: never quite finished, and never quite able to be elaborated on. The half-baked sentences are stretched to their limit, trying desperately to stitch together a worthwhile taste of literature. The page, filled with angry dashes and furious squiggles, becomes my canvas of chaos. Every time it ends in similar fashion: a violent flurry of hands tearing at the page, a paper ball wildly flung into the overflowing bin; and, once more, a blank page staring right back at me.

I’m not sure where the words go, when they leave me like this. Perhaps they decide to take a vacation from my tumultuous mind, and go somewhere tropical. Perhaps, when the words return, they’ll bring some spice from the romantic islands of Jamaica or the Seychelles. Perhaps they’ll come filled with stories of carnivals and adventure, and with descriptions of culture and colour. Perhaps they will fight for the attention of my pen, and my page will groan under the sheer weight of imagery. I’d like to think that- perhaps- all this will happen when the words return, wherever they have disappeared to.


I’ve heard them say that a blank page can appear daunting in its void state. I think they’re referring to the way in which the white glare hits you like the gleam of fresh snow on a Christmas morning. How the lines of the page rise off the clean, unblemished paper like jail bars baring you from a virgin maid. It appears too, that the virgin maid is content in her untouchable state; I can see her mocking smile- like a white queen- smug in her knowledge that my pen sits powerless in my hand. I stare back at her, defiantly holding my pen above the page. I refuse to let this virgin maid mock me so. Where are the words? Where have they gone?

My eyes blur with concentration as I focus on my new idea: I will bring the words to me. I cannot face creating a meager string of sounds again. I want a story of mystery, I want words that will inspire and excite- I want the right words, for the right topic. I feel my pen sink towards the virgin maid; her fading face looks scared. My pen touches the page, and the world suddenly grows quiet- all sounds muffled by the buzzing noise in my head. My hand twitches, and with that my pen begins to dance. Somewhere in the distance I can hear a virgin maid scream her silent scream.

My hand takes its final bow.
My eyes focus.
I’m no longer staring at a blank page.