Reveries, Dreams And The Talking Book

I was feeling jaded. For the first time ever, writing held little interest for me. The steady flow of words I'd relied on for years had slowed to a trickle over the last few weeks and had now stopped. I'd tried everything I could think of to get the trickle to turn back to flowing again, word games, prompts, reading, lots of reading. I'd listened to happy songs, sad songs, even so-called true life songs but it was as if my brain was as dry as a desert. 

Also, I seemed to travel under a dark cloud lately and I felt like all my positive emotions had left me. Without them and my flow of words I didn't have a story in me. Had I lost my muse or my mojo? Whichever it was, the end result was the same and I found myself drifting off into my imagination, helplessly searching for an idea…...

"You haven't used me enough lately," said a deep voice. "It's been so long that I'm covered in dust. Eww!"

I jumped. I was alone in the house.

"Have you thought that not looking at me might be one of the reasons why you've reached the point where every story that you write uses much the same words, even the same lines, over and over again?" 

I felt affronted by the suggestion that not only was I at an impasse with regard to my writer's block, but that my recent stories had been below par for some time. As I was deep in a very promising daydream I chose to believe the voice was part of that, albeit unwanted.

"Your stories are all starting to sound the same but with a slightly different plot, and they're not even good plots. You seem to have lost the ability to keep your readers guessing until the end. You're so set in your ways it never seems to occur to you that within my pages live lots of new ideas," the voice continued. "If you brought newer words into your work now and again, creating new sentences, you might find that they take the plot in directions you hadn't thought of before…………."

It was at that moment I noticed the words were emanating from the Thesaurus. It scowled at me in an accusatory way. It was obviously getting quite agitated as demonstrated by its movements on the shelf. I kept it lying down, appropriating it as a bookend and the thick layer of dust was being disturbed by the writhing about, clouding the air and making me cough. I drew my attention back to its words and I was aghast at the deluge of insults that continued to issue from this innocuous looking publication. Undoubtedly it possessed a bone of contention with me. Conversely I retained no enmity towards it and I had ceased to pay attention to the minutiae of its monologue. Whoever heard of a talking Thesaurus? 

I was undoubtedly losing my faculties as well as my ability to brainstorm a lengthy narrative that would enthrall my audience. Furthermore, why would I deduce that an outspoken tome would facilitate the restoration of my muse when my tactics had produced nought? I didn't respond to the assault on my writing skills. Instead I allowed my brain to return to my reverie. Assuredly the solution to my predicament was doubtless to be located there. I closed my eyes with confidence that the Thesaurus would observe this intimation and hold its tongue. Did it even possess a tongue? It must be vocalising somehow as it was causing great annoyance to my auditory equipment. All I desired was some rest and recuperation. Time to inhale and exhale. Time to use "my little grey cells,” to paraphrase the writing goddess Agatha Christie. I surmise that I slept for a while.

"I can tell you've stopped listening," the Thesaurus said, in a much louder voice which jolted me into an upright position. My sleepiness had left me prone till then.

"You need to hear this. You're so in love with your small collection of words that you believe you don't need me. You do. Every writer does, even the ones with access to a word count far greater than yours should learn a few new words now and again. It can't hurt. This horrid dust all over me shows that you haven't picked me up in years. Too clever to need me? Think again. I know you've deliberately kept things simple. Simple can be good but right now your version of simple is putting people to sleep. Those who still bother to read what you write. Can't you see that you may be boring your readers?" 

My countenance suffused with colour and heat. Now I was assuredly listening. I abhorred the concept of my audience perceiving my sagas as tedious and there was veracity in the statement that I did commonly exploit the extent of a finite assemblage of language, despite the reality that I possessed so much more. Perchance my endeavours required the addition of this supplementary and more distinctive vocabulary in my narratives. I'd already observed that even as a well respected author I had begun to utilise identical lines on more than one occasion. Fortunately they had been discerned in the edit but I laboured to discover other sentences as meaningful substitutes. In addition I was exerting my brain, straining it, to elicit different and unusual outlines for my publisher. Conceivably there existed an element of accuracy in all that the book was saying.

I had been adrift in an ocean of reflection and so I hadn't detected that the Thesaurus could read my thoughts and was smirking. 

I laughed, feeling heady emotion for the first time in weeks. Game, set and match. "I salute you my wordy friend," I said, realising what had just happened. "Thank you."

"Then my work here is done. You might find you have more ideas now and that will give you what you've been missing. Impetus. In your stories use some of the words you've used today and thumb through my pages sometimes and learn a few more. Oops," said the Thesaurus. "No, hey, wait a minute. I'm the one supposed to be using big words. That's what you've been continuously doing. You've stolen my job!'

Now I was the one who was smirking.