Writer's block
By flash
- 1593 reads
Writers Block
He wasn't brilliant but neither was he completely awful, but he was a
long, long way from brilliant and if truth be told he was nearer to
being completely awful, he'd written three stories and submitted them
to an internet site called Fictionshare.com, surprisingly for his first
efforts although raw and undisciplined the pieces he had lain on the
butcher's slab were decent with a beginning, middle and ending, this
was more than he hoped he could achieve and this had made him a little
giddy.
He'd received some nice comments, he'd also received comments that
weren't so nice, maybe not nasty, no it would be bitter, churlish to
say they were nasty, they were&;#8230; yes truthful, helpful, but
none the less comments that brought home his limitations, he kidded
himself this new hobby was not something that he wanted to succeed at,
not something he really cared about, he convinced himself that these
helpful comments weren't aching like a knife wound in the belly at the
back of his mind. He'd responded politely to his reviewers, told them
how sweet they were to take time and review, and how helpful and bloody
kind they were to read his naff prose, and then he lied to them about
how he looked forward to reading their work (shite).
It was 2 A: M in the morning, and nothing was in his head not even an
opening line, and not even a title to springboard his imagination, on
his screen was a piece he'd die to write, a piece that told him cruelly
"You're imagination isn't the bottomless pit you thought it was
sunshine, and I'm here to remind you, you're laying there blinkered in
your creative coffin," the piece belonged to someone new to the site,
someone fresh and ready for slaughter, he was not so unkind (cowardly)
as to post a comment to criticise, but because the author had written
something so brilliant and vivid neither could he write something to
praise, jealous that his own words were mere page fillers, yet this
author used words from the same dictionary as he, but the difference
was this author nailed the page with line killers.
It was 2:35 in the morning, in five hours he'd get up and go to work in
a Calcutta's black hole called his job. He ventured onto the Site forum
where people discussed Abortion, Capital punishment and Spam, and there
Laying like an orphan lamb amongst Wolves was a post by the new author
announcing how wonderful it was to be part of a new community, to share
ideas, and to be silly in a gentle way from time to time, and oh how
he'd love to hear from fellow writers, in fact he wished it. Oh how his
wish would come true.
The forum was also a place where bad writers went to die, they'd play
nice for a while, but then it becomes too much and they succumb to
writer's suicide, too bitter to stay friendly they hide behind silly
names and for a while just play at being naughty, but this game soon
becomes dull, then just plain nasty and spiteful takes over. It's the
way he now played. It's what he'd become.
He filled in his funny? (snide) reply to the authors post, deleted his
own name and then typed in a hilarious? Troll name, he pressed the post
button and felt empty, and he was now sweating. It was 3:AM in the
morning he'd just put his head on the writer's block and now he was
waiting for the axe to fall.
- Log in to post comments