The stage is set and the play ready to begin. But wait, the story has not been completed yet? The show must go on. Right? So, will improvisation work...Ah, no. I doubt it. It’s too late for that. Okay, then what’s the solution? Cancel the show!? Uh?!

Or let the audience decide and pick what the story will be like? O, but how??

Aight, you know what. The story will go on. To next time. For now, it’s back to re~writing the script. With a different set of characters. That might just do the trick!

I just hope the current characters don’t mind if the story is changed, a wee bit. Okey, let us get to work. The show will carry on!

#Character(s).

Just one word. That’s all I need. One word. Then I’ve started. Maybe I should find something to base the word off of. Maybe it’ll make finding the perfect word easier. Ok. Now I’ve got my word. Now I just need another. The second word HAS to be easier than the first. Then after that I need another. This is harder than I thought. Need more inspiration. Am I being too repetitive already? No don’t be stupid you only have a few words. Just one at a time. Ok now I have a sentence good job. I just need more of them. Then the sentence will turn into a paragraph. I’m getting there. Maybe after that I’ll add another. Then I’ll need another first word to start with. Guess this’ll take a while.

***

—another ham-fisted stroke of the pen

retracing words already written—

***

Author’s Note:

This past week has been marked by clumsy writing for me. I’ve been persistent in pushing past it, but because of what’s happening in my life, I find myself constantly treading old ground in the same ways. Here’s to hoping that this week will be more fruitful—will see me find a new context or perspective.

#challenge

#micropoetry

#poetry

#writersblock

I walked along the park to clear my mind. As I sat at the bench, I saw a damsel in distress , stuck in a tree, calling for her knight in shining armour to come. A few minutes later, the knight was fighting a witch beside the tree. He struggled but still killed the witch. The damsel was rescued and they lived happily ever after.

I took my notebook from my bag together with, my pen. As the point touched the paper, the damsel , the knight and the witch all disappeared. A white flash devoured my eyes. As I open them again, I wasn’t in the park anymrore. I was sitting in a room of white, with only a chair and a desk inside. As I tried to touch my pen, I couldn’t. It’s like an invisible shield was keeping it away from it. I pushed and struggled to take the pen but still failed. I screamed and screamed. Then, I realized, I’m the words and stories in my mind, struggling inside, yearning to escape and be together with me, the pen and paper. I continued screaming, then a cackling voice stopped me. The walls became transparent and a spotlight flashed on the other side. The witch appeared with the wrinkled grin and laughed fiendishly...

That’s my version of writer’s block.

Research is the bane of my existance.

What I write needs to make sense, it needs to be accurate, at least to the best of my ability. No, I can't just use a random acid, it needs to be perfect. No, the escape route can't be through a freaking window, how does that make sense? People could see.

So instead I stay stuck, same situation, same character, same issue. As I try and solve the problem they wait. And wait. And wait.

If I grow bored of research they never return to action. I don't mourn, I promise to return and continue their lives through their story, to extend their existance until the proper conclusion. I haven't, not yet. Not a single piece is brought to it's conclusion, instead the story lies in wait for one day of release from their frozen states within a statis screen.

I can't apologize. I know I will do it again, there's no way I will manage to hold onto the tails of my story and draw it's body back towards the pages to lay in black ink.

Instead it lays underneath the digital gravestone markers within the files of my computer. They don't ask to be recovered, they aren't yet loud enough to have a voice. They haven't been taught how to scream with all the personality I have added, they haven't existed long enough to know.

And so I leave them, hundreds of newborn pages lost in though. I do visit their graves, but none call out. I present their new siblings with the hope the new one will be fully brought into the world.

Only a few are successful yet, a few that haven't laid to rest with the others.

But still I don't mourn.

You leave, and they glide as consorts.

You hurt, and they flow as rivers moving tears

You fight, the fort of words protects.

In darkest fear, words reaffirm faith.

I molt a doubtful skin

and begin to see my worth.

I take the pen when I see injustice

I take the pen when I feel hopeless

I take the pen when I’m inspired

I write, and therefore I am.

They’re a comfort, these words.

I am glad they will never leave.

They promise to stick around,

through fair weather and foul

How I need them, I need my words.

Then you come back with a rakish smile

and just like that, I open all doors.

You’re kind this time, and I feel secure

We love again, and the world is right

I take the pen, it admonishes like a sword.

Abandon words to make more love.

I believe, and yet I am not.

Just for an afterglow soon to follow,

Silent blocks I callously allow.

A desire to write,

Anything,

Anything at all

Ideas banging on ivory walls,

At once, eager to escape,

And then longing to stay

In their home of origin

Words bouncing around my head,

Over and over again

However hard I try,

The ink won't spill,

Not even with all my might

I try to force the thoughts together,

Hoping they'll form a cohesive metaphor

It's all for naught,

My mind suffering a draught

Whatever stories I have inside,

Simply refuse to come to life

Writer's Block is...

Well, I guess to describe it one would have to ummm...

Dangit. I had an idea, but now its gone. Should have written it down when I remembered it...

I got it. I can just sit and begin. Eventually something good will come. Right? Even if I can't get passed...well actually I'm not sure where to start...

Maybe I should go get some inspiration.

(Two weeks, a couple of near death experiences, and a lot of wasted money later)

I'll just give it a few more days, than maybe I can put something good down.

Eventually an idea comes. It's amazing, and it just flows. It's like a rushing river. No, it's like the blood gushing from a gunshot wound. NO, it's like music delicately stepping from a Baby Grand. Four days of no sleep and it's beautiful and crafted and done. It needs framed it's so good.

It fits so perfectly with...

Oh, wait. The essay due tomorrow? The one I was supposed to be doing this past month? Yeah, I got nothing so far....

I’ve writer’s block

When looking ’round

Words to use

Describing sounds

Do creeks go gush

Or do they gurgle?

Water’s noise?

Oh how I babble

Bumblebees

With wings, abuzz

I whir in search

The sound, thereof

Spicy; hot?

Perhaps use sizzle?

That falls flat

My words all fizzle

A tap; a jolt

The clock, a clack

Or is it click

The tone of that?

Moan or murmur

Zip or bop

Must be right

The phrase to pop

Within my ears

Bum, bum; lub, dub

The only sounds

I’m conscious of

I had a brilliant idea for a story this morning while half-awake at 3 am. Now I am here in front of the computer. Won't hurt to catch up on news while the coffee's brewing, and then I'll open Word and get started. Mistake. I get so enraged by reading the political headlines that I can feel my jaw clench. I take a few deep breaths and try to relax. Coffee ready, I stare at my blank word document and vainly try to remember my masterpiece. All I can think of is the list of chores for today and wonder if my husband took the car for inspection yesterday as he was supposed to. I decide to fold laundry, the theory being that my mind will soar to great heights while my hands are occupied. Mistake. Someone left a tissue in a pocket and my favorite black sweater is covered in white fuzz. I give up on it for now and decide to check email. Mistake. It's pretty much all spam. I don't dare check Facebook, but it wouldn't hurt to read some celebrity gossip to lighten my mood. Mistake. I jump guiltily when I realize it's been thirty minutes. I switch back to Word. My mind is as blank as the page. Finally, I make a deal with myself. I am not allowed to do anything else until I have put two hundred words, any words, on the page. I take a deep breath, type as rapidly as I can, hit save and walk away. I am not allowed to re-read and pick it apart until tomorrow. I walk away with a light step and my head held high.