Block

Deena paced her room, taking momentary glances at her desk and the blank pages sitting atop it. No matter how much she wracked her brain, she could only come to one conclusion: she was stuck. 

Every writer experienced writers’ block from time to time, but to Deena’s knowledge, no one had such hang-ups about them as she did. To her, they were the ultimate sign of a writer’s weakness, when the flow of ideas came to a crashing halt. Or worse, when those ideas were clear and present, but one lacked the language to express them.

Deena had been working on this particular manuscript for about four months and knew this situation well. She could think of thirteen examples, just offhand. The wannabe writer cringed whenever she thought about her mediocre progress; between her real job and her frequent bouts of writer’s block, she had barely managed to scrape out more than four chapters. She rubbed her temples in frustration. She knew what her story was, she had planned it out over a year ago, but for some reason, whenever she sat down to write it, the words wouldn’t come.

Sitting back down in her chair, Deena rubbed her head, hoping that some of her ideas would fall onto her paper with her dandruff. Alas, her sheet was just as blank, if a bit more disgusting.

“Damn it.” She whispered to herself, unsure where to go next. Maybe if she read a bit further back, she’d be inspired again. She opened her desk drawer and leafed through her disparate papers before she found her first draft of chapter five. 

I darted around a corner, pressing my back against the wall. I closed my eyes and tried to steady my breathing; I had no idea if those things could hear me, but I wasn’t about to take any chances. I placed my hand over my chest, trying to force myself to stop breathing. I heard a faint noise from the end of the hallway and clasped my hand over my mouth. I didn’t move, hoping against hope that I wouldn’t be noticed. The noise grew closer, the wet thumping against the cave floor becoming more distinct. The clanging of metal against bone echoed in my ears as each thud brought the creature closer. I closed my eyes, the sound taking over my experience and sending shivers down my spine. The clanging came to a crescendo, and I realized only the thin cave wall separated me from my pursuer. Then it stopped. I clutched my chest tightly, trying to still my heartbeat, which was as loud as an orchestra in my head.

The scent of rust and rotten meat flooded my nose, but I fought off the urge to cough. For several agonizing seconds, the silence was oppressive. I was sure that in an instant, I’d be dead. I saw in my mind’s eye the soulless empty eye sockets and face dripping with rotting flesh as my body was torn apart. I saw the grotesque image of my body parts strewn about on the cave floor, my brain absorbing all of it in painful details. Then, when I was on the verge of breaking down and screaming, the cracking and clanging of metal and bone rubbing against armor started up again, growing quieter as it headed back down the hall. When the sound had faded from my ears, I dashed down the corridor, doing my best to put my fears out of my mind. All I could focus on was running...

Deena shook her head and threw the papers away. This was all wrong. This was where the main character had to overcome his fears to face the monster that had killed his parents, but he clearly wasn’t ready for that. She had rushed his arc, and now she couldn’t think of what to do next. She needed something to motivate the hero to continue with the story after he had avenged his family, but she couldn’t think of what that was. Her biggest weakness as a writer was straying from her scripts, even when she couldn’t logically justify them.

Deena got up from her chair and put her face between her hands. Nothing was going to get done by sitting around and moping. She looked out the window; it was a beautiful day outside. Maybe a short walk would help her clear her head. She grabbed her purse and phone from the coffee table and headed out the door. 

She put on her sunglasses as she headed out the door of her building. She figured she’d walk down to the park; that usually got her creative juices flowing. As she turned and headed down the street, she unconsciously started looking around, paying attention to every little detail around her. A woman was walking her dog, a tan pomeranian mix of some kind, across the street from her. A barbershop was just opening its doors for the morning. What time was it anyway? Deena shook her head that didn’t matter. It was morning, at any rate.

She crossed the street quickly, waving the car at the stop sign unnecessarily. What was he thinking? Did he think she was weird for waving when he’d already stopped? He probably did. Actually, no, he probably didn’t think about it at all. She was stupid for putting so much thought into her impression on a stranger. She was so lost in thought that when she looked up, she had utterly missed the park and had to walk back a block.

Deena’s thoughts were already racing when she walked into the park. This trip was already turning out way worse than she had anticipated. She sat down on a bench, closing her eyes and trying to center herself again. However, every little sound around her, from children playing baseball to people mingling in the dog park, was overloading her senses. She opened her eyes and held her head. This had been a bad idea.

Why did this always happen? All she wanted to do was finish her manuscript, her passion project. Why did the universe have to undermine her at every turn? She sighed; that wasn’t true. The world wasn’t against her, she was just hopeless. She had been like this since middle school: jumpy, sensitive, averse to change. She was always overthinking everything, which was why her stories were so hard to finish. Every time she found a slight error or even just changed her mind about a scene, she’d agonize over it for days. Eventually, she’d reach a conclusion that would have been obvious to any good writer, if she didn’t scrap the scene entirely.

At this rate, her book would never get finished. Maybe… maybe she wasn’t a writer. Maybe this wasn’t the right path for her. Maybe she should stick to the straight and narrow like her advisors in school had told her. 

Taking another look around the park, her eyes gravitated to the dog area again, where she saw a man playing fetch with a golden retriever. For some reason, she was fascinated by the exchange, seeing the dog continually go back and forth, the look of sheer joy never leaving its face. The man would pet the dog the same way every time it returned, the same smile stretching across his face. The cycle continued uninterrupted.

The cycle continued.

Deena shot up, her eyes going wide. That was the key to her block. Her hero wouldn’t just stop at hunting monsters when he had killed the one that took his family. He’d keep going. That’s why he would keep hunting monsters. The cycle would continue.

Suddenly, the possibilities of her story seemed endless. She could explore a Moby Dick relationship where the hero engaged in a self-destructive path towards ruin in his quest for revenge. He could find a friend who he grows close to but ultimately have to choose between them and his hunt. He could even become tired of the cycle and finally break it to find something new to pursue in life. 

Deena sat back down. She really could turn on a dime when it came to her writing. The question was whether this would stop her. She had a cycle of her own to overcome, and she wasn’t quite sure how to do that. For every revelation about her writing that brought her closer to finishing her work, she could think of an instance where she was on the verge of quitting altogether. Would she ever be able to get over this persistent hurdle?

She looked up to the sky, the clouds parting to show the sun. She took off her sunglasses. There was one thing she knew, and that was that quitting now would not make her any happier. She’d be spending the rest of her life regretting her choice, wondering what would have happened if she had not given up so quickly. No, there was only one path forward, and that was to keep writing, no matter what problems she may face. 

Deena walked down the street back towards her apartment, a new sense of vigor in her blood. She heard a loud noise and jumped, turning to see the golden retriever barking at her, its face looking as happy as ever. She clutched her chest, steadying her breathing. The first step on her mission to change herself: get some headphones.