How Do You Destroy Writers Block?
folder
Original - Misc › Humour
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,189
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Original - Misc › Humour
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,189
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
How Do You Destroy Writers Block?
* Taken from my own twisted and disturbed mind so beware when reading! *
A/N---- A somewhat humorous look at my troubles with writers block. I hope this will help me and maybe help others feel better about there own situation. In addition, this is full of fragments and other such small and petty grammatical errors. This wasn’t meant to be grammatically pleasing, well…at least not too much. Anyhoo, read on!
How Do You Destroy Writers Block?
A dilemma to be sure. How do you destroy something that is causing you so much pain and misery? How do you break through that barrier keeping you from your goal? I don’t have an idea but I’m going to figure it out even if it kills me! Even if it sends me to the brink of insanity only to be pulled back, at the last moment to be saved, in a glorious burst of ideas and blinding screen light.
Ah yes…To be saved. That is what every writer dealing with this evil entity desires. To be saved from the evil clutches of the dreaded Writers Block. The bane of all our existences. It ravages the mind and kills the keyboard from the frequent poundings it receives because it is not co-operating either. It’s in league with that miserable mind block. It mocks you as you sit there staring at it for hour upon hour. You wind up biting your nails down to the quick, or pulling your hair out by the roots. You start to pace around the room muttering black curses at your lack of creativity. Moreover, with each lap your pace quickens until you are just making circles whilst muttering even blacker curses and waving your arms in the air. Then, you try something drastic. Something dangerous even!
However, when you get ready to try something happens. An idea! A small one to be sure so you rush to the computer quickly to write down whatever it is, even if its total shit. You sit down with a huge grin. Your fingers wiggle in excitement, your eyes are alight with happiness…You finally have an idea! Yes! You touch the keyboard and your about to make the first keystroke back in creativity. Then the most horrible thing happens…It literally slips through your fingers back into oblivion! Your face just crumples, your eyes water, and a lone tear slips down your cheek. You are defeated. It has won the battle. Getting up you leave the computer, shoulders sagging, feet dragging. Moving to your room, you get ready for bed and it happens again, but after the humiliating defeat just moments before you decide not to chance it. That decision soon comes back to haunt you. Ideas are now floating around like mad. Is there a pen, pencil paper anything ready to jot them down?! NO! There isn’t anything you could use. Moreover, the house is now excessively quiet as it is the wee hours of the morning. Therefore, you decide to go to sleep anyways hoping against hope they will still be there in the morning. However, no…there isn’t any such luck. They are gone now. You now wish that you had written those ideas down before they disappeared.
Now you are ready to try that dangerous idea of yours. Getting the courage up you crack the knuckles of your fingers and flex them for extra measure. Now with an extraordinarily determined face you confront your Writers Block, which has now grown to resemble a small mountain. Pushing up your sleeves to your shirt, you squat to grasp the bottom of this huge boulder and you try to attempt the impossible. Bracing yourself, you begin to rise. Your muscles bulge and strain, and sweat starts to gather after five minutes of trying to lift this massive object out of your way. The sweat is no longer just beading up; it’s now literally pouring down your face in small rivulets, gradually becoming small streams that are pouring off your face.
Your shirt becomes wet with sweat between your shoulder blades and under your arms. In addition, as the patches become larger, your face gets even redder with the strain of tying to lift your Writers Block out of the way. You once again start to curse the fates, your muse who is ever absent from your side. A muse that you cared deeply about and tried to keep happy at all the time. The one that dumped you like last weeks smelly garbage.
You continue to strain yourself. It becomes harder and harder to even breath because you are clenching your teeth together so hard. So you decide to rest a bit and when you do, the blood rushes from your face so fast you get a feeling of euphoria followed quickly by dancing black and white spots in front of your eyes. Panting you sit on the floor unceremoniously while pulling at your collar in the effort to get some cool air under your shirt. While you are sitting there fanning your face you glare daggers at the Writers Block cursing it ten ways from Sunday and back again. After about another five minutes of cooling off you attempt it again, this time with a fulcrum and lever.
Walking around the massive Block, you try to find the best place to put the fulcrum and lever, and after circling it two or three times, you just say “What the hell” and find a decent looking spot to place your simple tools. After setting down the fulcrum and wedging the lever under a nice looking spot, you begin the game again. This time after some long and arduous straining, it begins to tilt a bit. A look of pure joy over takes your face and you push down on the lever even more. It continues is ominous tilting, and soon its nearly tipping over completely, but the strain is too much on the wooden device in your hands and snaps neatly in half and nearly sends you face first into the resettling boulder, relentlessly blocking your way. You curse blackly, and profanely. You question its parentage in a most interesting manner.
Finally, after running out of steam and various ways of flipping it off, you decide to give up all together. It has won. It’s not going anywhere. It will continue to grow and grow until it crushes your very soul under its immense weight. However, at some point, it will start to break, and you’ll be there ready to laugh your ass off while it’s shattering into a million tiny pieces. Oh yes, its day shall come!
THE END!
SilverFox
A/N-------
Read and review, flames welcome. Somewhat… O.o
A/N---- A somewhat humorous look at my troubles with writers block. I hope this will help me and maybe help others feel better about there own situation. In addition, this is full of fragments and other such small and petty grammatical errors. This wasn’t meant to be grammatically pleasing, well…at least not too much. Anyhoo, read on!
How Do You Destroy Writers Block?
A dilemma to be sure. How do you destroy something that is causing you so much pain and misery? How do you break through that barrier keeping you from your goal? I don’t have an idea but I’m going to figure it out even if it kills me! Even if it sends me to the brink of insanity only to be pulled back, at the last moment to be saved, in a glorious burst of ideas and blinding screen light.
Ah yes…To be saved. That is what every writer dealing with this evil entity desires. To be saved from the evil clutches of the dreaded Writers Block. The bane of all our existences. It ravages the mind and kills the keyboard from the frequent poundings it receives because it is not co-operating either. It’s in league with that miserable mind block. It mocks you as you sit there staring at it for hour upon hour. You wind up biting your nails down to the quick, or pulling your hair out by the roots. You start to pace around the room muttering black curses at your lack of creativity. Moreover, with each lap your pace quickens until you are just making circles whilst muttering even blacker curses and waving your arms in the air. Then, you try something drastic. Something dangerous even!
However, when you get ready to try something happens. An idea! A small one to be sure so you rush to the computer quickly to write down whatever it is, even if its total shit. You sit down with a huge grin. Your fingers wiggle in excitement, your eyes are alight with happiness…You finally have an idea! Yes! You touch the keyboard and your about to make the first keystroke back in creativity. Then the most horrible thing happens…It literally slips through your fingers back into oblivion! Your face just crumples, your eyes water, and a lone tear slips down your cheek. You are defeated. It has won the battle. Getting up you leave the computer, shoulders sagging, feet dragging. Moving to your room, you get ready for bed and it happens again, but after the humiliating defeat just moments before you decide not to chance it. That decision soon comes back to haunt you. Ideas are now floating around like mad. Is there a pen, pencil paper anything ready to jot them down?! NO! There isn’t anything you could use. Moreover, the house is now excessively quiet as it is the wee hours of the morning. Therefore, you decide to go to sleep anyways hoping against hope they will still be there in the morning. However, no…there isn’t any such luck. They are gone now. You now wish that you had written those ideas down before they disappeared.
Now you are ready to try that dangerous idea of yours. Getting the courage up you crack the knuckles of your fingers and flex them for extra measure. Now with an extraordinarily determined face you confront your Writers Block, which has now grown to resemble a small mountain. Pushing up your sleeves to your shirt, you squat to grasp the bottom of this huge boulder and you try to attempt the impossible. Bracing yourself, you begin to rise. Your muscles bulge and strain, and sweat starts to gather after five minutes of trying to lift this massive object out of your way. The sweat is no longer just beading up; it’s now literally pouring down your face in small rivulets, gradually becoming small streams that are pouring off your face.
Your shirt becomes wet with sweat between your shoulder blades and under your arms. In addition, as the patches become larger, your face gets even redder with the strain of tying to lift your Writers Block out of the way. You once again start to curse the fates, your muse who is ever absent from your side. A muse that you cared deeply about and tried to keep happy at all the time. The one that dumped you like last weeks smelly garbage.
You continue to strain yourself. It becomes harder and harder to even breath because you are clenching your teeth together so hard. So you decide to rest a bit and when you do, the blood rushes from your face so fast you get a feeling of euphoria followed quickly by dancing black and white spots in front of your eyes. Panting you sit on the floor unceremoniously while pulling at your collar in the effort to get some cool air under your shirt. While you are sitting there fanning your face you glare daggers at the Writers Block cursing it ten ways from Sunday and back again. After about another five minutes of cooling off you attempt it again, this time with a fulcrum and lever.
Walking around the massive Block, you try to find the best place to put the fulcrum and lever, and after circling it two or three times, you just say “What the hell” and find a decent looking spot to place your simple tools. After setting down the fulcrum and wedging the lever under a nice looking spot, you begin the game again. This time after some long and arduous straining, it begins to tilt a bit. A look of pure joy over takes your face and you push down on the lever even more. It continues is ominous tilting, and soon its nearly tipping over completely, but the strain is too much on the wooden device in your hands and snaps neatly in half and nearly sends you face first into the resettling boulder, relentlessly blocking your way. You curse blackly, and profanely. You question its parentage in a most interesting manner.
Finally, after running out of steam and various ways of flipping it off, you decide to give up all together. It has won. It’s not going anywhere. It will continue to grow and grow until it crushes your very soul under its immense weight. However, at some point, it will start to break, and you’ll be there ready to laugh your ass off while it’s shattering into a million tiny pieces. Oh yes, its day shall come!
THE END!
SilverFox
A/N-------
Read and review, flames welcome. Somewhat… O.o