Writer's Block
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A block of text arrived at my doorstep this morning, with no clue as to where it came from and the identity of the sender.

"Well," I thought, "I could use these, it would be a waste otherwise" as I dragged it squeaking into my mind.

As my right brain starts grinding for ideas and my left brain prepares the logic sieves, I wondered where it came from. Perhaps it was the dejected, humiliated son of an article, its theories long rendered null and void? Maybe it burst screaming for justice, from a murdered author's pen? Or maybe it was born in a serene mountain range, flashes of inspiration and a storm of brains heralding its arrival. Then I wondered about who delivered it to my doorstep; could it be a literary stork, whose cradle rocked by turbulence as it flew over my head? Or was it the chanting of forgotten deities, a last-ditch effort to send their legacy to an unknown future? Maybe a casual conversation with a friend or workmate just encouraged it to germinate right there?

I pondered the questions in my mind, but suddenly realized that my right brain has gone into a distraction, and my left brain is tapping its prepared words exactly a second apart, trying to get my attention. Right, right! I have left them in a haze of wondering. I suppose I should start with the actual unraveling of the text block, and structured assembling of its components; but alas, more questions harassed my poor mind. How do I find a beginning? What is the object and subject of this collection of words? What theme should you arrange it into? Would the story you make be popular?

Frustrated by the battery of mundane queries, I turn to see that the text block has started to ripen. Oh no, I should transfer it to a suitable medium, before it left to rot completely; But antiquity had claimed my typewriter, and bugs have swarmed my word processor - I knew I should have taken it for a ride a while back - and all I have left is my trusty pen, and a sheet of paper too small for the block. But I digress. I pushed on.

I set to the task of setting this jumbled block straight; weaving narratives upon loose, frayed ends and battling the demons of sleep and fatigue. But sometimes sleep brings with it an ally called Dream, which could revitalize this mess of a story - but there's not enough time, the text block is starting to rot.

Soon I went into some extreme practices in writing to preserve the raw idea in the block - such as experimenting with colors - or




  1. I started to list the ideas
  2. But as each one filed out of the block
  3. It was soon evident
  4. That there were too many to count

So I stopped listing them. By this time I was struggling to keep the ideas corralled.

I tried using hyphens-in-everything; I tried sprinkling metaphors around like so much tinsel around a lavish christmas tree; But-the-hyphens-went-out-of-control and the metaphors stopped making sense like a non sequitur lopped around its Sunday.

At the end, the ideas ran out of the sheet, the whole text block rotted away and made a mess of my mind, mispellings were chrusting up the coners, and my pen ran out of ink.

This handwritten piece of paper was found at the doorsteps of the Library. No other identifying marks were found.

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