“Writer’s block” had to be the antithesis of mankind.
While the world raged on, with its wars and its AIDS and its starvation, Emmett sat in a dark room alone, staring at his screen, frustration mounting.
No matter what he started to type, it invariably descended into stupidity.
Orrin was a rancher of no small reputation in his town. He was stupid.
Nancy could hardly think of how to avoid connotations with the surname Drew, which was stupid. So was she.
The sun crept upwards, shining his rays on a boy milking a cow, both of whom, in the sun’s estimation, were stupid.
Emmett toyed with the idea of writing about his writer’s block, but all writers know that doing so is stupid. Perhaps the problem was his music. Admittedly he was getting distracted by Pink Floyd and thought of switching to Samuel Barber. He had heard that classical music was the best thing for inspiration, but he had also heard that President Bush was a member of a reptilian alien race bent on enslaving the world. Maybe that would make a good story, he thought, but he realized that it would be the icing and several cherries on the Stupid cake.
“Which is why you’re dumping me.”
“Which is why I thought you deserved to know why I’m not marrying you.”
“Look, I’m kind of busy right now.”
“It’s two in the morning.”
“Yeah. Well.”
“That’s the problem. You never had time for me. I was always taking the backburner to your writing. All you do is write about life; you forget to live it.”
“Jessica …” he was at a loss for words. That seemed to be the order of the evening.
“I need a man who loves me first.”
He sat a long while in silence. Suddenly, he perked up, a smile on his lips. He finally had something to write about.
While the world raged on, with its wars and its AIDS and its starvation, Emmett sat in a dark room alone, staring at his screen, frustration mounting.
No matter what he started to type, it invariably descended into stupidity.
Orrin was a rancher of no small reputation in his town. He was stupid.
Nancy could hardly think of how to avoid connotations with the surname Drew, which was stupid. So was she.
The sun crept upwards, shining his rays on a boy milking a cow, both of whom, in the sun’s estimation, were stupid.
Emmett toyed with the idea of writing about his writer’s block, but all writers know that doing so is stupid. Perhaps the problem was his music. Admittedly he was getting distracted by Pink Floyd and thought of switching to Samuel Barber. He had heard that classical music was the best thing for inspiration, but he had also heard that President Bush was a member of a reptilian alien race bent on enslaving the world. Maybe that would make a good story, he thought, but he realized that it would be the icing and several cherries on the Stupid cake.
And Barber was contemporary, not classical. He couldn’t stand real classical music anyway.
This couldn’t go on. His Goliathian deadline was looming too near for comfort, and with it came the halitosis of anxiety. Emmett was feeling a lot like Michelangelo’s David, decidedly ill-prepared for battle with his giant.
His phone began to ring unhelpfully.
“Hello?”
“Emmett!”
His night had just become infinitely worse.
“Hi, Jessica.”
“Emmett …”
“Yes, Jessica?”
“You’ve always been my best friend.”
“Then you probably should have married me.”
“Emmett …”
“Look, maybe now isn’t the best time. I’m fighting a giant in the nude.”
“Why are you fighting a nude giant?”
“No, I’m in the nude. Like Michelangelo’s David. Look, that’s not important. Why are you calling me?”
“Well, I thought a lot about what you said.”
“Good.”
“Emmett, you’re a great guy--”“Which is why you’re dumping me.”
“Which is why I thought you deserved to know why I’m not marrying you.”
“Look, I’m kind of busy right now.”
“It’s two in the morning.”
“Yeah. Well.”
“That’s the problem. You never had time for me. I was always taking the backburner to your writing. All you do is write about life; you forget to live it.”
“Jessica …” he was at a loss for words. That seemed to be the order of the evening.
“I’m really sorry,” she said. She sounded sorry. “I need more than that.”
“Look, if you can’t bring yourself to love a man who loves his work--”“I need a man who loves me first.”
“Jessica --”
“Goodnight, Emmett. I really am sorry.”
She was gone.He sat a long while in silence. Suddenly, he perked up, a smile on his lips. He finally had something to write about.
That.....strikes me as being both incredibly horrible and hilariously, unfortunately true. And I really need to stop using adverbs, RIGHT NOW.
ReplyDeleteI didst write it for my creative writing class. We had to tell a story with character development/change/rebirth/etc., conflict and resolution, about something mundane and commonplace (he said the swords and sorcery won't work until we know how to write well about simple things), and it had to be under 500 words. Crazy hard. But it were fun!
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