Writers Block

Writers Block

Micheal sat at the computer, staring at the blank screen in front of him and started to try and type something. It had sounded so good in his head, but on the screen as large as life…

Micheal tapped the backspace button and sighed.

It had been seven years since Micheal had last properly sat down to write something: time, work, money and women had cut down on his writing time and he’d had a serious writers block any way. He’d hoped that had gone away now, but nothing he could think about worked for him. The problem was EVERYTHING had been done. At least, everything he could think about had been done.

That, he decided, was the big problem. It wasn’t the fact that he couldn’t think of anything, he could think of loads of great ideas, and they were great ideas. Which was probably why he recognized them as the latest blockbuster, or as a book he’d read as a kid.

He clicked the small show desktop icon in the corner of his computer and double clicked on the folder titled “Writing”. Inside were four or five half finished novels and a collection of short stories which, if printed, could spell the doom for several small rain forests. There had to be something here he could recycle.

After what seemed like an age looking, Michael decided all his old short stories had been done as well. The problem is, having been born in the twentieth century, other people have had thousands and thousands of years to come up with idea’s. The actual chance of you thinking of something original must be millions and millions to one. And then when you consider the amount of people who actually write fiction today alone…

Micheal sighed, and stared at the still blank computer screen in front of him. He kicked the tower, handily placed by his right foot and swore loudly as he heard a click. A groggy sounding “Shu’ up Micheal, you’ll wake the neighbours” came from the bedroom, and then a loud snore.

His wife was beautiful, charming, witty and great in the sack. She snored like a pig though. He blinked thoughtfully. No…he shouldn’t talk about pigs like that, they are the source of bacon after all, and bacon is the source of…

He stopped typing about the pluses of Bacon and clicked new page.

It wasn’t that his wife annoyed him as such…it was just some times he wanted to grab her by the throat and shake her. “No, I haven’t put up that shelf yet.” “No, the kids haven’t called for me to go pick them up, otherwise I wouldn’t be here scratching myself” and “No, your bum doesn’t look big in that, then again it IS a pillsbury doughboy costume.”

She was so…wifey. She wasn’t like that when he’d met her. She was exciting, fun…girlfriendy. Now she was like his mom…Well, not entirely like his mom. Once a week they still had their sex night. Wednesday night, no holds barred! After a glass of wine, a light dinner (To prevent gaseous emissions) and a two minute grope fest, the two of them would wonder up the stairs to their bed and poke in the dark for 5 minutes until one of them gave up and went to sleep. Sometimes they went crazy and repeated this on a Saturday, but not very often. As Micheal’s father used to say “Too much excitement will ruin the boring days”

It was a difficult decision for Micheal to sign the “Do Not Resuscitate” slip when his father was rushed to hospital with Heart Burn, but he did it and he’d stick by it! But, as his father always said “Death is just the end of life”. The pills were definitely not working.

But either way, his father had survived the heart burn, had been rushed to hospital a week later with a sprained ankle. The week after with throat pains and an ‘itchy groin’ (“And the more I scratch it, the redder it becomes!”). The doctors had called him a hypochondriac. Micheal had called him a pain in the arse and had took to hiding his fathers shoes which confused him greatly. After traipsing around the house for five minutes he’d sigh, sit down at the tv and announce to the world “Well…I was wearing them when I came in!”. His father was 42 years young (As he mentioned to Micheal’s fourteen year old sisters best friends every time she brought them home.).

Micheal looked at the blank screen and tried to work out something to put. He knew a lot of things, but nothing he could write about. He was always impressing his friends with small pieces of trivia about things nobody could give a crap about. He’d have to admit one day he was never going to make it as a successful writer, he had no original idea’s…

A slam from downstairs meant the man from downstairs had just got home. Ten minutes of furious hammering, followed by 5 minutes of bed squeaking, followed by his wife snoring meant his evening duties had been performed. It was nice to know everyone was in the same boat.

Micheal tapped in the words “Once upon a time” and nodded at the nice ring to that. It was tried and tested, it was pleasant to hear and it would make his short story seem pleasant and child friendly. “Once upon a time there was a Jar of honey.”

Honey…Micheal nodded at this stroke of genius. Everybody likes honey!

But what about those that can’t eat honey. Micheal grimaced at the idea of offending anyone with his story, and clicked new page. This put him right back at the beginning again.

Micheal sighed and turned off his computer. He may not have written anything tonight, but he sure as hell would tomorrow…although tomorrow WAS Wednesday. He couldn’t avoid sex night, he’d tried. He removed his shirt and went and got into bed. His wife snored. The woman from the room below snored. It was almost in unison.

They must practise to piss me off, he thought and he fell to sleep.