Uninspired

You sit at the wooden desk that you built yourself. Your blank google doc stares at you, ever so intimidating. You glance at the clock, which is your first mistake. It is already four o’clock. Where did that hour go?

You sigh to yourself.

You have the idea to google writing prompts. Apparently, that’s not what you are supposed to do during writer’s block. It feels like something inside of you was trying to escape, like a caged zoo animal wanting freedom. But no matter how much it roared and screamed and shaked the cage, it could not get out. You decide to switch tabs, glancing at the clock as you do so. Its hand is pointing out how much time you were wasting by looking at it. 2 seconds, 4 seconds 16 seconds, 32 seconds, soon a whole minute passed as you stare at its black and white numbers. The ticking just aggravates you even more. 

You look back at the tab you went on. It was that writing site, you found in December, Reedsy. You click the little blue bell with the yellow dot, the notifications section. It’s almost automatic, the anticipation that rises in your chest when you wonder who said what on where.

Snap out of it, self, you mentally chide yourself. 

You switch back to your doc. Nothing stirs in your mind. It’s like your body shut out any and all inspiration that you ever had. That leaves you to spin in your swivel chair. You accidentally hit your knee on the desk and let out a yelp of surprise pain. You return the chair to its rightful position, parallel to the wall an arm’s reach away from you. 

You hopelessly lay your head on your desk. You close your weary eyes, listening to the music you have on, seeing if that sparks your creativity. Which, of course, it doesn’t. You sigh again and decide to take a snack break. 

You glance at the clock again. This time, it reads 5:00. This puts a hustle in you. You hurry with your snack, feeling pumped and like you could write a marathon. You chug some water.

Alright, you think to yourself. I’ve got exactly 3 hours and 50 minutes until the competition ends. You crack your knuckles and straighten your posture. You breathe in a deep breath and exhale. Your eyes wander back to the screen. The white hurts your eyes a bit, so you turn down the brightness. You look over to your calendar, and a beautiful white wolf looks back at you. 

Wow, it’s already Friday, you think. You look back to the wolf. Maybe you can be my character, you think.

Adverbs and adjectives start to flow in your head, like someone stirring soup. That metaphor got you thinking. Maybe you are the chef and making this amazing soup. Now you desperately want to write about food. 

But food isn’t a good character, your doubt says. You sigh yet again, the soup and wolf idea going down the drain. 

Maybe I can write about an inanimate object, you think, eying your clock that now reads 5:30. But what would you even name it?

You’re starting to get flustered with your inner self.

Maybe I should branch out and write something inspirational for a change.

There is always an umbrella of hope for you to go under in the storms of life. Whether that umbrella is your work, your friends, your family, or even an actual umbrella.

What kind of inspiration is that?

It takes a certain brightness to see the dark.

What…

Someone’s eyes are always watching you, whether it’s your family’s, your siblings’ your dog’s, or even your old stuffed animal from 6th grade.

Uh... this is more creepy than inspirational.

You close your computer. You hope to start fresh in the morning.

But then, you instantly re-open your computer because you realize that the morning would be too late. You wait for the doc of 145 pages to reload. Whilst doing so, you start reading your old work. You stick out your tongue in disgust, like a bitter taste or weird smell. 

Was I really that naive when I was younger?

You make the same mistake of looking at your clock. My word! It’s already 7:00!

You hastily scroll down to your unoccupied space. You frantically glance around your room, looking for anything that might spark something in your brain. Unfortunately, you come up with nothing. You massage your sore head and rest in a few sparse seconds of peace. When you open your eyes, the clock reads 7:10, as if mocking you. 

Your anger is starting to boil like a kettle on a stove. You lay your head on your fist in exasperation. You know very well that if you don’t get this story out, your self esteem will haunt you forever. But nothing is coming to you. It’s so much easier to make up a movie in your head than to write it down on paper as a book. You sneeze, sending a tingle of energy down your bones. You and your self doubt go on a full blown war, debating whether or not to write about the clock. 

You can’t help yourself, you look its way. 7:30. A little less than 2 hours to write at least 1,000 words and edit it, and you barely have a character. You decide to stand up, and you start pacing your room. You mutter to yourself as you walk. Nothing. The mocking clock seemed to move its hands faster, like the whole world is turning against you. You sigh and sit back down. You play fidget with your fidgety fidget cube, calming your hands and mind only slightly. Its magic seems to be wearing off on you. 

You yeet it across the room, as you would have liked to do with a couple hundred of your books. You look at your arch enemy, father time himself. His loathsome face read 8:00, one more hour. 

It’s too much pressure, you convince yourself in the end. You sigh and close your chrome-book for sure this time. You mumble while you put your PJ’s on and brush your teeth.

There’s always next week, your inner monologue tells you.