Monday, December 7, 2009

Writer's Block

Writer's block is never a fun thing. We all hate that feeling, when you're staring at a blank page, not knowing what to write, or even how to write. It's the moment when all ideas seem to fade away, to leave you behind as they run through star-lit skies that you can't see. The following story is something, ironically, that I wrote while in the middle of writer's block. I wanted to write something, but didn't know what, and this is what came out. It's not very long, and seemed a lot longer on the small pieces of paper on which I wrote it, but it serves its purpose. Sometimes it is not the length of the story, but the content which shows its true meaning. And so here it is, my story, my little bit of a world outside of our own, a world that may not truly exist anywhere but in these few words.


Unblocking the Block

By Keziah Roy


She sighed, looking down at the blank sheet of paper before her. It was perfect, no lines, pure white, and unblemished. It was one of the most daunting sights she'd ever seen. With what words could she mar this perfect page? Surely they must be wondrous, if they were to cover the pristine paper in squiggles of blue ink. Could she really find the right words to fill the page?

She held the pen poised to write, hovering just above the paper. But still, she couldn't bring herself to mark the page. Long moments stretched by, moments filled with indecision. The pen hovered, never touching the paper, never making a mark. Finally, she closed her eyes, took a breath, and wrote. One word was all she needed, and the wall crumbled, freeing the words in her mind. Her pen flew, dancing across the page, filling it with wondrous sights and glorious words.

Time flew, became elastic, then ceased to exist entirely. Her world contracted, focusing in on the words rapidly filling the page. Nothing else mattered. Her words were alive, leaping from her pen to create a world of bright colors and tinkling bells. Music filled the air, bringing the heady scent of incense along with it. Characters came alive with the words, moving through the streets, conversing with each other, living their lives in their own world, the world created from nothing but pen and ink.

The silvery threads of imagination wove through the words, binding them in a living magic, keeping them alive for ages to come. Finally, the pen stopped. She lifted her head and smiled. Four pages sat before her, each one filled with writing. She blinked several times, ridding herself of the leftover images. She set the pen down and gathered up the papers. As she left the table, she smiled. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could still hear faint strains of music, and the scent of incense still wafted faintly through the air.

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