Thursday, October 30, 2008

Writers Block


I wrote this for creative writing last week.


Writers Block

“I need to come up with an idea, but what?” He though, rapidly typing “I need an idea” hoping maybe by some magic event that he’ll be struck by inspiration, “Why can’t I think of anything?” he shouted as he smacked his head against the table, and that’s when it hit him, not just the table but a realization, “Of course! It’s writers block!”

Yes, he realized he had writers block, and that the only way to get past it, would be to DEFEAT IT.

“But how? I don’t see the writers block in this room, so where is it?” he muttered to himself not realizing there were others in the room, and then a person he had never met before came up to him and said “Trying to defeat writers block? The only way to defeat it is to find it, and where else would it be but its fortress!” of course! Where else WOULD it be? And thus he headed towards the writers block’s fortress! I mean, why didn’t he think of it before? Everybody’s where writer’s block fortress is, 300 Millwood St! It’s right by the school! So he headed there right away.

After a short walk he arrived, armed with his pen and sword he walked up the door and rang the doorbell.

As he waited fro a reply he looked at the fortress, a Victorian style house, with modern fences and hedges, a “fortress sweet fortress” doormat on the ground.

“Who is it?” said a voice that sounded like a woman in her 80’s, “Is this the writers block fortress?” said the boy, “Why yes it is the writer block residence” said the voice, and the door opened to reveal a solid white room with a solid white block in the middle, “It looked like there would be more inside from the looks of the outside” thought the boy.

As he stepped inside the room fire lit up around the walls, and a maniacal laughter filled the room, and this wasn’t the old lady either, in fact, the boy wondered why the voice at the door sounded like an old lady when there was nobody there when the door opened, who opened the door anyways?

If the lady did exist he wondered what her life must have been like, answering the door for a block that prevents inspiration from reaching artists and writers, something that stands against all creativity, and he noticed the idea itself of a big scary fortress having an old lady answer the door as if you were visiting your grandmother at her house in the suburbs isn’t a very creative idea in the first place, so it must’ve been a manifestation of the writers blocks existence, and he noticed that he was in fact being distracted from what he was doing by overanalyzing the old lady, he shrugged it off and ran towards the block, as the laughter grew louder spikes grew from the floor and arrows shot from the walls, the boy cut down the spikes and dodged the arrows, he made 1 big slash at the blocks vital points! “Wait a minute, where exactly are the vital points on a block?”

He then remembered that he had a pen on him, and he then knew what he head to do.

After dodging another arrow he jumped at the block and began franticly writing a 60 page novel on the block, about a 13th century warrior who finds and kills the last unicorn only to find that the blood does not in fact cause immortality, and realizing he had just rendered a magnificent species extinct.

The maniacal laughing turned to screams of agony as each word written carved scars into the dying writers block, the block began to crack and with the last words of the novel “The end” the block crumble to pieces and from where it was standing a spring of inspiration sprung forth, beautiful colors and wonderful ideas flew forth and caused the fortress on 300 Millwood St to implode, the boy barley escaped as the fortress collapsed upon itself(as that is what implosion is) the boy watched in amazement, for when the building finished imploding, all that was left was 60 sheets of paper, it was the novel he had written to defeat the writers block, he picked up the paper and walked back to school, stapled it together, and finally he was finished with his project.

The end.

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