The sky is clear, birds are singing loudly, and the sun is shining brightly. It's a beautiful day for everyone, except for this writer. The sun makes the room hot and stuffy, the birds are irritating, and the bright sky makes it difficult to see the computer screen. None of these components were helping me focus. All it does is stack more frustration on top of my dread. By observing the empty document, unmoving text cursor, and defeated expression, you can tell that I'm suffering from a severe case of "Writer's Block." This mindset blocks the creative flow, making it hard to think of a good idea, especially with a deadline haunting me.
All I can manage right now is stare at the white screen and the black blinking line. A few times, I got an idea and sat up to write something. But I soon went back to moping after realizing it wouldn't work out. I give up. No plans will appear in this condition, so the best thing I can do is continue with my day. Besides, it's only six in the morning, and I haven't had my morning coffee.
I step out of my scorching office, stretching my limbs out. My long pajama pants dragged behind me as I shuffle to the kitchen. As I waited for the coffee to grind, a white and yellow blur flew towards me. Instinctively, I ducked and shouted when my forehead smacked against the counter.
"Ha-ha!" my sadistic cockatoo, Sean, laughed, flapping his wings and puffing his chest. I roll my eyes as I rub my head gingerly. The ground coffee brews into a bitter brown liquid, spitting it out into my inspirational mug. Once the machine sputtered out the last drops of coffee, I pulled the mug away and took a sip, immediately recoiling from the distasteful shock. I placed the cup down, and the dark coffee lightened into a milky brown as I added cream and sugar into my drink. The next sip was much more enjoyable, perfectly centered between bitter and sweet. Sean squawked and tugged at my hair, begging for sustenance. Ignoring the pain in my scalp because of my troublesome pet, I headed to the cage and began filling the food bowls. Sean rested on my shoulder, digging his claws into my skin. He reminded me of a pirate's parrot, always sitting on the shoulder, warning the owner before something goes wrong.
The lightbulb above my head flickered. A pirate story wouldn't be a bad idea. It's another classic: the traditional sailor, their crew, and a feathered friend as the number one sidekick. It'd tell numerous stories about sailing the seas, plundering gold, battling other ships, and singing sea shanties over a warm mug of beer. The captain would sit in the great cabin, amongst piles and piles of gold, and only the best meals for the team. I love writing a pirate story, but I doubt anyone would read something that cliche.
I finish preparing Sean's food. He immediately abandons my shoulder and gorges himself on the dry seeds and grain. Usually, after completing his meal, he lazes around the cage for the next few hours, so there was no point in hanging around. After feeding him breakfast, I feel like I deserve some too. I'm mostly craving a sweet pastry from the cafe a few blocks from my neighborhood. So I fix myself up in the bathroom, change my outfit, slip on some sandals, and begin the journey for a sweet treat. I entered the cafe and spotted what I wanted, a savory-looking chocolate croissant that made my mouth dripping with saliva. I was just in luck as well; it was the last one in the display case.
A man entered right after me and stared at the croissant with the same look I had. We locked eyes, a competitive flame igniting. I felt like a treasure hunter at sea, encountering another ship going for the same prize. I needed to get there first. He seemed like a nice man, but at sea, no one is friends. And finders keepers is what they say. I rushed to get in line, and so did he, nudging me out of the way to push forward. I fired right back at his ship with a nonchalant shove into a nearby group. He managed to regain his composure quite quickly and pushed through, but it was too late. I had already entered the line in front of him, and a smug grin spread across my lips. But I'm a generous pirate, so when I got my order, I had to share half with my worthy opponent.
I returned home, content. The lightbulb went off again as I stepped into back into my household. Pirates at sea, fighting for a single treasure, a rare, valuable, and powerful prize. They would sink ships, fire cannons, and swordfight to claim the reward for themselves. However, it most definitely wouldn't be easy. Hundreds of other crews hunting and doing whatever it takes to take down anyone in their way. In the end, only one will be victorious. Only one clan will be strong enough to fight their way to the top, claim victory, and reap the benefits. Even then, the crew could never sail in peace. There would always be someone or something hunting for them and the prize so they could steal it and do their best to keep it for themselves. And the cycle would continue until the pirates of the sea came together and found a compromise. Someone would break the rules, however, and try to take it for themselves. But only the most daring and those with the most willpower would do that.
I sit down in my office again. The sun was no longer directly shining into my window, the birds had flown away for the day, and a cool breeze blew through the screen mesh. I opened the computer, and the blank document appears, along with the teasing black line. This time I wasn't staring at it in dread; I was staring with excitement. The lightbulb above my head was no longer flickering but radiating with ideas. I placed my hands on the keyboard and typed the first few letters. A few hours later, it was no longer a scarce document, but page after page of a story. It was a story about the life of a pirate. The topic had been used many times in the past, but writing as if I was the pirate and sailing the ship somehow made it different. Intertwining real-life experiences with the life of a scallion at sea made it all that much better. I conquered my writer's block, and I've taken the prize for myself.