Writer's Block by A. B., Weston, MA



I sat. Blank. The paper. Blank. As my left hand picked at drips of food bonded to the table like epoxy, I gave the clock a peripheral glance to silence its ticking and returned to the paper. The lack of anything skimming the light blue lines was testimony to my stagnation. Restlessly my knees pushed against the table's edge. In one final, desperate move I was on my feet and headed toward the fridge.

There, too, nothing vital graced the frosty plastic shelves. Curdling milk, watery mustard, and three-month-old kosher pickles basked in a celestial light. Disgusted, I withdrew from the whirring cold and realized it was no use. Assigned one week ago, this conflict paper was half my English grade. I was down to my final thirteen hours.

Unhappily returning to my seat, I clicked a piece of paper from my binder, scrawled my name at the top, an unnecessary but deeply ingrained habit, and tried to focus. It was no use. My mind sped about chasing a tail of familiar themes; even friend Henry's "Fear of Snakes" topic received extreme envy. My brain was wedged in a rut; forward progression halted yet spinning senselessly, like a wheel stuck thrashing in oozing mud.

My jaw came to rest on my knuckles. The dishwasher gurgled. The whole day had been spent working; church skipped for violin practice and the afternoon engrossed in my sun watch. Fatigue, the little devil, ran rampant. The frustrated hand controlling my idle pen tapped, methodical at first, then increasing to a spasmodic flurry of flesh.

The left hand clawed paper with stubby nails. A shriek pierced my leaden fog. Panting heavily, I soothed myself by reasoning that I still had twelve hours, plenty of time. But as I surveyed the damage, I realized the likelihood of this paper being completed was nil. The remains: mangled, whitened-black shards of plastic, floating in an onyx pool. Wearily I sponged up the fragments, retrieved another pen, and placing a fresh piece of paper down, I gave it another shot. A long shot.