Writer's Block

The story of one writer hurdling that which plagues us all

A man sits at a worn, pitted table in a run-down studio apartment, staring out a window overlooking an unexpectedly quiet street in a city center neighbourhood.  A thin trail of smoke rises from the ash tray, curling around a lamp which illuminates a blank page and a pile of discarded starts.  A tumbler of amber whiskey, the rocks now pebbles in their reverie, waits at arm’s length.  The writer’s hand quivers, pen tip hovering above the lined page.  His brow creases, and with a sweep of his hand he brushes the paper aside, casts away his pen, and lets a world weary sigh escape his lips as his head finds its way into welcome hands.  His chair scrapes the ground as he rises, stooped shoulders straightening.  He reaches for the glass and tosses his head back, barely feeling John Jameson’s bite as the contents swirl down his throat.  He opens the window and flicks out the butt of his cigarette.  He watches it float down, like a drop about to disturb a still pond.  Before the roach reaches the ground, the writer is back at the table, his pen dancing all over the page.  His writer’s block has vanished, his still thoughts disturbed by the drop of his cigarette.