The plot now completed of some two passages developed into something sensible, and handed in for a midterm to an Iraqi professor I think most highly of, I can proudly share “A writer’s block that talks”. Comments are welcome,if not indeed yearned for, and let the marvel of different tastes have its say!

A writer’s block that talks

I sit to my usual desk, mouse in hand and a monitor emitting harmful radiation my way. I start the ritual with an invocation to all the juices of creativity possibly existing within my frame: “ Oh holy imagination ooze! Come to your suppliant and answer her demand, once more!”

I wait for a minute or two, anticipating a future rush of adrenaline and proposals; I slide to the edge of my yellow chair as a result of this state of acceleration. Nothing happens. “That’s odd”, I think to myself, and I wait some more.

I become a believer in time’s relativity, and I sound my trust in my muses over and over again. But I can’t seem to know what to write, I can’t seem to find a thread to weave the tale I set out to complete.

Better uses of my time come to my awareness and I regret having been placed on that yellow chair and in that state of utter blankness. I feel awkward when I come short of words, and it doesn’t happen so often. My word supply never seems to diminish, it grows and grows, and yet here I sit, wordless.

For a moment I think I hear a hissing sound, then I recognize a chuckle. “Who’s there?”, I demand and look around the room. I receive no answers and I halt the questioning, I go so far as to referring it to the strangeness of the affair.

“You won’t be writing today, you know”, a voice wisely predicts. I take another turn and there I see it, comfortably lounging on the couch; my writer’s block. It sits on the floor, in a lotus position as if in meditation. All I see is a red block, with hands and feet so like mine I could have mistook them for the original articles, had I not taken a closer look at my own, and affirmed the duplication.

“You heard me. You won’t be writing anything today. I am here, and I am going nowhere”.
“Do I answer with a smart get back or do I ignore this audacious obstacle that dares challenge my creativity?”, I ponder privately. I sit silent for a while, looking at the block as it continues producing meditative humming sounds.

After a soundless pause, I resolve to small talk the block. I say: “ Where did you come from?”, and it replies “ Why! Your imagination, no doubt!”. So it comes from my imagination, sweet! Then I can simply think it away.

I say: “ So what brings you here, Oh Block?”, and the block smirks and tells me it’s here because it has nothing to do for the day. It even adds that it’s been quite some time since it last emerged from the folds of my imagination, and a challenge is usually pleasant.

I fix my eyes on the monitor displaying the bare word processor page, the font I chose, the size of it, the toolbar and a mass of other icons whose functions are anonymous to me. Squeezing my head with my two hands, my brain strives for a thought, just one. All I need is one idea, one idea no matter how stupid or irrelevant it may seem. There’s nothing to relate it to, to start with. I just need one idea, and the block will go away.

My writer’s block doesn’t budge. At times it stares at me, and at others it looks at its hands. Its constant humming gets on my nerves, I cannot seem to be able to concentrate. How am I to catch a divine impulse if this- this thing- that violates the privacy of my room and the sanctity of my mind does not cease to hum its way into my imagination?

Now it changes position, oh, it stands. It walks around the room in aimless circles; it probably does this to distract me. I look away and I try to focus all my attention on the PC screen. This resolution works for some five minutes, and then I can no longer resist the temptation of looking at the block as it does its little circular dances.

“Music adds to the magic of the moment, no?”, asks me my writer’s block. It doesn’t wait for my affirmative, it snaps its fingers and voila—music fills the air. The block dances on and on, now clapping, now trotting like a lunatic, all this it does to divert me.

“Oh holy imagination juice! Do not leave your suppliant alone, in the face of this hazardous temptation. Come to my aid, I beseech you”, I once more entreat the forces behind my former creations.

Out of the blue an idea crosses my mind as the block mocks my endeavor. “ So you think your so-called muse will order me away? Think again, writer. I reign over this domain, once I am here, none other prevails”, says my block.

“I would like to see how you would practice your power over me, when I start–”, and I prepare my fingers to use the keyboard, “– writing about, guess who, you!”