The Poet's Rose - A Stardew Valley Fanfiction

Elliott

        It was cold in my cabin, but nothing could compel me to notice.  I was at war, you see.   It had been long, hard, and tiring.   It also was doing a number on my eyes, but what was there to do about that?  Wearily, I squinted hard at the blank page before me.  This was my enemy in combat, metaphorically.  I was a writer, but if this writer's block kept up, I wasn't sure if I could truthfully call myself that.  No matter how many writing exercises I did, no matter how many times I forced myself just to plow through this mental block, I had failed to complete a story.   That was what frustrated me the most: I had hundreds of ideas for books, but I could not seem to bring any of them to fruition.

        Scowling at the blank page, I reached for it and slowly, mindlessly crumbled it before repeatedly clonking my head on the desk before me.

       "Why *thunk* won't *thunk* you *thunk* work?" I moaned, finally resting my head on my desk, long auburn hair splayed haphazardly.  I likely would've fallen asleep in that position if I hadn't heard a tentative knock at my door.

        "Come in," I called out, jerking my head up.

        "Lad, I...good grief, Elliott MacKenzie, you look like—"

       "I'm aware, Willy, thank you," I hastily cut my friend off.  I knew must've looked quite disheveled, but I knew Willy well enough not to care.  The fisherman chuckled.

       "I was just wondering if you wanted to grab a beer with me before I sail off.  Thought you might need to get out of your cabin for a wee bit," the weathered man offered.  Upon seeing my look of hesitance, he turned to coaxing.

       "Come on, Elliott.   I know it's gettin' late, but I think a change of scenery might do you some good."  I sat still for a few moments, processing Willy's offer.   I was touched that he had thought to check in on me, but blast it, I was stubborn.   Any time spent doing anything but sitting hunched over my accursed writing desk was time wasted, time that brought me closer to failure.  I opened my mouth to decline Willy's offer when my stomach growled.  Willy laughed.

        "Well, it's a good thing Gus is serving up clam chowder tonight, isn't it?  Throw on your coat and meet me outside, why doncha!"  I reluctantly smiled as I slipped my shoes on.  The cold night air in the cabin was finally nipping at me, and nothing sounded better than a warm bowl of clam chowder. 

        Honestly, Elliott, you can't keep skipping meals, I scolded myself.  It won't murder your creative energy.  Slipping on my favorite red jacket, I scowled.  There was always something to nitpick about myself, it seemed.  If I didn't write one day, I was doomed, in my mind.   If I did nothing but write, I paid for it both physically and mentally. 

        I was beyond grateful for Willy and the only other friend I had, Leah, for constantly checking in on me these past few weeks.  What they noticed earlier than I had was that my relationship with writing was starting to take a downward spiral.   So, they would visit me to see if I wanted company, needed to eat, or go for a walk.   Anything to distract me from the stress of my vocation.

        What I was beginning to wonder, though, was if they understood that I couldn't escape the growing fear that I would fail at doing what I felt I existed to do.