Writers Block

Phone Numbers, Cereal, and Bike Helmets

The blank computer screen stared back at me, mocking me with its plethora of possibilities. I rubbed my face, pushing my glasses up to my forehead. A moan of utter frustration and grief escaped my lungs.

Suddenly, my cellphone started blasting "Devil in Disguise" at full volume. With a shriek, I jumped. In the process, I tipped my chair backwards and landed flat on my back on my bedroom floor. Only one ringtone had the ability to scare me like that: My publisher.

"Julian! Baby, what's up?" He screamed into the phone.

"God dammit, Gavin!" I said, rubbing my head. "You do realize it's 6 a.m. on a Saturday, right?!"

"Well, were you sleeping?" He asked. I sighed. He knew me too well.

"No."

"Then no hard feelings!" He said, excited once more, "Sorry about the mix up though, bro! It's 9:30 in the city!"

"Wait, what city? Where are you?"

"New York, baby! The Big Apple! Crowned jewel of America!"

'Great,' I thought, already knowing where this was going.

"I'm right here with Terry Stacker! You know, the editor?" Did Gavin think I lived under a rock?

"No, Gavin. I have no fucking idea who Terry Stacker is," The sarcasm boiled in my tone.

"Guess depression took a vacation and jackass is house sitting! Shut up and listen, Julian." He sounded more serious, "We're at a breakfast meeting right now and he's very curi-"

"Not interested," I interrupted.

"Julian, this is the third offer you've turned down in the past two months you can't ju-"

"You heard me! Not interested!" I thumped the end call button and slid my phone across the room. Stretching, I pulled myself off the floor and fell onto my bed. That was the third all-nighter I pulled this week.

"Julian," I said to myself. "You're dying. You don't sleep more than 20 hours a week, and a good meal consists of a bowl of cereal. You have no life, a failing career, and no point in living..." For a second I pondered killing myself. All I had to do was walk into the bathroom, swallow a big handful of sleeping pills, overdose, and die. Simple as that. I had no family that would miss me, no friends to feel any remorse (well, unless you count Gavin, but his tears would be more over lost profit than my rotting corpse).

"Back to work!" I said aloud. I rolled over to stand, but misjudged the distance and hit the floor, landing hard on my side.

"Shit!" I yelled. Too lazy to stand back up, I crawled to my desk, only sitting up enough to pull my computer down with me. Lying on my stomach, I stared once more into the blank screen.

My first book had been so easy! What happened? The ideas had just kept coming and coming. The characters had become like family to me. But now, one bestseller list and a Pulitzer Prize later, I was suffering what every writer dreads: writer's block. I now understood why some authors killed themselves or were driven insane by this plague. Maybe I wasn't going suicidal, but I was pretty positive I was losing my mind.

After a couple of hours brainstorming and two trash bins of crumbled paper later, I finally gave up. 10 a.m. No point in trying to sleep now. I went into the kitchen to get my daily bowl of cereal, just to find the pantry empty.

"Dammit," I sighed. This meant I actually had to go outside. I'd become a bit of a sociopath lately and dreaded the idea of people. I was hungry though, and maybe some fresh air would clear my mind. I couldn't remember the last time I left my flat.