I pulled another drag from my cigarette as I stroled back and forth through my room. There was a white sheet of paper in my typewriter. I looked at it in my short stop, pulling another drag from my cigarette, letting the smoke take over my lungs. I didn't get it. How could it be I had all these great idea's the night before, and now that I finally got to actually writing them down, they got locked up somewhere inside my brain and wouldn't dare to escape. It was a frustating happening. I had it every one or two years. Writer's block. That is the worst nightmare of a writer. The day you are unable to get words onto paper. Friends of mine, also writers, had this before. But not for one day, one week, or a month. No they had writers block for years. It killed them. I was afraid I would end up like them, slightly insane, staring at that white sheet of paper, held by my typewriter.
The end of my cigarette came near. I took one last drag, and killed it in the ashtray that stood on my desk. I sighed and decided to just sit down and stare at the paper. Perhaps words would magically appear. And so I did. I sat there. For minutes. And minutes became hours. And yet nothing. Ocassionally two or three words would go through my mind, and then....nothing. My mind just went blank. I started thinking about what to cook that night, if I had enough cigarettes, that the dog need to be walked, I needed to pay my phonebill and do my laundry.
And then it just hit me. There was so much to write about, but my mind just couldn't, because I hadn't figured it out all completely. Maybe that time wasn't meant for fiction, but for the more realistic things in life, things that really happen. That is what I should write about.
And this, was just the start. Now, I think it's time for yet another cigarette.
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