Writer's Block

There is a body on the floor…

Lame. Trite. Shit. The temple of my head is red raw. It’s like I’ve almost torn a sheaf of skin off my scalp from all the scratching I’ve been doing with the back of my pen. Fuck….

All I can spew is utter randomness and even that is not in the vein of sheer brilliant and ingenious spontaneity. I can’t understand what is wrong, why is what is normally the most fundamental thing to me, the Zen of all my existence, such a blank write now. Originality is evading me. C’mon, you are more than this, you are one of the most renowned, the most published, criticised and most idolised writers of your time. Get a hold of yourself; get a grip on things with your own brand of self-motivation, no bullshit guru The Secret inanity. Shit I’ve never succumbed to the desperation of coaching myself through the dark pages of my life, the answers just always come to me like that, in some inexplicable instantaneous moment of pure and untainted enlightenment, like the man in my conscience responsible for all my creative genius has just turned the light on and found both my angel and devil in standing ovation. Now the light is gone, not even the good kind of lights out, no one’s here to play and there is no hope of even an electric current to spark things up again and angel and devil have departed in sheer dismal frustration with my ineptitude.

I just can’t be there already. Am I? That ugly and contemptible stage? The unbearable, unfeasible, untenable situation? The one more uncanny than any literary idea I’ve ever written? No, bullshit, it can’t be? The well has not run dry yet. The well has not run dry yet. My hell has not arrived yet. You still have plenty of substance to extract yet. You still have a few notches up your writing sleeve. Flesh them out. You know what you’re doing, you’ve had plenty ideas born out of nowhere before, what makes now so different? Everything and Nothing. Nothing. Blank. Nada. Tabula Rasa. Is that what I’ve worked towards my whole life? You know what you’re doing? Or is it a matter of I have known what I was doing? Is the present irrelevant does this moment mark a climactic point to all that has gone before, a full stop to all my feasible and worthwhile ideas tried, tested and gone? DEAD? Is there a guy somewhere in the background with a stopwatch unbeknownst to me laughing his absurd little head off at my misfortune? Did I cross the picket line without even knowing? Is it the cackling deviant, Creative Genius, which has exiled me?

No can’t be. Lynch-ian politics be gone, there is no room for you on my page. I illustrate and designate the picket lines, plant the seeds, create the ubiquitous characters, furnish the details, there is no way I can be an unwitting subject to an ulterior plot or some lucid unhinged dream of a fractured mind. I am the plot keeper. There has to be something, at least amongst my reserve of ideas, somewhere within the hedges, used or unused, (desperation knows no ethics), waiting to sprout that I can yield into some form of viable storyline.

Okay. The parchment is in front of you. Turn this tabula rasa into you Rosetta stone, the key to your new mystery or at least the ancient one in which you magically knew how to turn a phrase and create plot development, bring ideas to life and create a body, an action, a world. How bout I just colour in some basics.

SETTING
(An office space)

The floor was scattered with what obviously was the confused and discarded ramblings of a disturbed mind, as scrap upon scrap upon scrap of paper was scrunched up into each individual isolated piece of frustration creating a blanket that resembled the cloud that must have been fogging the victim’s mind just before his unsuspected demise.

I picked up a few of the scraps and the scribble confirmed that frustration was rapt within the subject. A maniacal scrawl of black pen, the desire for erasure, constantly built upon and thickened to the point that it resembled a thickset Rothko-like brushstroke rather than the humble scribble form it originally was. A few words here and there were discernible only due to the particular vigour with which they were struck upon the page leaving an indelible embossing that no mark could erase,

option work time selling

Other than the erratic evidence that enveloped the desk like a cloudy moat, the rest of the room was in quite an organised and pristine order.

The outer walls boasted wall to wall, floor to ceiling, bookshelves, the only space unencumbered as such by annals of knowledge being the doorway which looked relatively as if it was a big rectangular intruder of nothing, invasive, upon the clearly defined purpose of the space. At first it would seem irrational to assume that all these books were read by one individual or that they could all be read from beginning to end even by a whole household of people in an era. However flick through the pages and you can feel the soul that has been consumed and defiled from the text as the pages’ creases, various liquid stains and loose pages spell out they are no longer chaste to human fingers and eyes and that the soul has been cast anew at the close of the book, so others can then enter the intruder doorway, pick it unwittingly off the shelf and traffic its wares.

For one single person to have read all the books staked into those solid high wooden walls, if every page within the room had been gleaned from every black a to z on each individual sheaf would require the subject in question to be consumed with a kind of manic addiction unceasingly from birth. Fantasy evokes an image of a seemingly angelic child in a pullover knit vests and gingham pants, glasses askew over beady eager eyes, with pupils that enlarge relative to the increasing high they would experience as the codes of meaning and life would jump from the page, scroll over their eyes and roll over behind them and worm their way through to the incessantly throbbing and moistening sponge inside their skull.

Oooh.. skull…Which brings me back to the architecture of my story.

Oooh.. skull…Which brings me back to the architecture of my story.Zoom from the bookshelves onto the sturdy thickset mahogany wooden desk, with the stock standard desk lamp and zoom into a novelty skull, which silently screams a Shakespearian existential complex. The intellect within the page has novelised itself within the bric-a-brac, Ikea nesting instinct, for the classic narcissistic bookworm in both body and spirit. Let’s throw a novelty quill in there too, estimated at about the cost of the five cents worth of pen ink it took to include it into the story’s inventory.

Oooh.. skull…Which brings me back to the architecture of my story.Zoom from the bookshelves onto the sturdy thickset mahogany wooden desk, with the stock standard desk lamp and zoom into a novelty skull, which silently screams a Shakespearian existential complex. The intellect within the page has novelised itself within the bric-a-brac, Ikea nesting instinct, for the classic narcissistic bookworm in both body and spirit. Let’s throw a novelty quill in there too, estimated at about the cost of the five cents worth of pen ink it took to include it into the story’s inventory.A newspaper violently strewn across the table lay open at about page 67, at the section dedicated to opinion pieces. A newspaper is always quite a curious source of inspiration to the way we set out our everyday lives. For many it forms a framing device to their daily routine as it is the first or last thing to be read, and sometimes both. What does one have to look forward to whilst eating their breakfast, travailing on the train or reposing after a long hard day’s work, in bed next to their spouse? The majority of a newspaper is made up of a formulaic concoction that always includes degrees of political agenda, crime, mystery, bloodshed, red herrings and fluff.

Oooh.. skull…Which brings me back to the architecture of my story.Zoom from the bookshelves onto the sturdy thickset mahogany wooden desk, with the stock standard desk lamp and zoom into a novelty skull, which silently screams a Shakespearian existential complex. The intellect within the page has novelised itself within the bric-a-brac, Ikea nesting instinct, for the classic narcissistic bookworm in both body and spirit. Let’s throw a novelty quill in there too, estimated at about the cost of the five cents worth of pen ink it took to include it into the story’s inventory.A newspaper violently strewn across the table lay open at about page 67, at the section dedicated to opinion pieces. A newspaper is always quite a curious source of inspiration to the way we set out our everyday lives. For many it forms a framing device to their daily routine as it is the first or last thing to be read, and sometimes both. What does one have to look forward to whilst eating their breakfast, travailing on the train or reposing after a long hard day’s work, in bed next to their spouse? The majority of a newspaper is made up of a formulaic concoction that always includes degrees of political agenda, crime, mystery, bloodshed, red herrings and fluff.I find newspapers quite ironic when you look at them as a whole, a famous author once wrote that ‘no event is ever correctly reported in a newspaper.’ However I believe it’s not a matter of error but inherent contradiction that riddles the reporting process. On page 67 there is an opinion piece in which the columnist claims that the tragic death of a famous celebrity was bought upon by the loose moral codes of a distinctly extreme left wing tendency of the murderers and berates this political premise for the majority of the article. If you turn to page 5 which reports the details of the crime the reporter speaks of the victim as a subject worthy of praise for his strong belief in his political convictions in the obituary like last paragraph of the article. The learned reader would know that the celebrity though in a comfortable financial and social position was himself a strong advocate of left wing politics. Politics aside a newspaper can be quite ironic when you look at it as a whole. Irony isn’t solely a weapon of the fiction writer, Irony can be very real. Then again I guess reality is more often than not ironic. The thousand words a picture can offer in a newspaper, is more often than not a 1001, as there is something always encrypted that only the most acute and discerning reader will pick up on, and often only on a second glance.

Oooh.. skull…Which brings me back to the architecture of my story.Zoom from the bookshelves onto the sturdy thickset mahogany wooden desk, with the stock standard desk lamp and zoom into a novelty skull, which silently screams a Shakespearian existential complex. The intellect within the page has novelised itself within the bric-a-brac, Ikea nesting instinct, for the classic narcissistic bookworm in both body and spirit. Let’s throw a novelty quill in there too, estimated at about the cost of the five cents worth of pen ink it took to include it into the story’s inventory.A newspaper violently strewn across the table lay open at about page 67, at the section dedicated to opinion pieces. A newspaper is always quite a curious source of inspiration to the way we set out our everyday lives. For many it forms a framing device to their daily routine as it is the first or last thing to be read, and sometimes both. What does one have to look forward to whilst eating their breakfast, travailing on the train or reposing after a long hard day’s work, in bed next to their spouse? The majority of a newspaper is made up of a formulaic concoction that always includes degrees of political agenda, crime, mystery, bloodshed, red herrings and fluff.I find newspapers quite ironic when you look at them as a whole, a famous author once wrote that ‘no event is ever correctly reported in a newspaper.’ However I believe it’s not a matter of error but inherent contradiction that riddles the reporting process. On page 67 there is an opinion piece in which the columnist claims that the tragic death of a famous celebrity was bought upon by the loose moral codes of a distinctly extreme left wing tendency of the murderers and berates this political premise for the majority of the article. If you turn to page 5 which reports the details of the crime the reporter speaks of the victim as a subject worthy of praise for his strong belief in his political convictions in the obituary like last paragraph of the article. The learned reader would know that the celebrity though in a comfortable financial and social position was himself a strong advocate of left wing politics. Politics aside a newspaper can be quite ironic when you look at it as a whole. Irony isn’t solely a weapon of the fiction writer, Irony can be very real. Then again I guess reality is more often than not ironic. The thousand words a picture can offer in a newspaper, is more often than not a 1001, as there is something always encrypted that only the most acute and discerning reader will pick up on, and often only on a second glance.I digress with philosophical ponderings, back to the story…

Oooh.. skull…Which brings me back to the architecture of my story.Zoom from the bookshelves onto the sturdy thickset mahogany wooden desk, with the stock standard desk lamp and zoom into a novelty skull, which silently screams a Shakespearian existential complex. The intellect within the page has novelised itself within the bric-a-brac, Ikea nesting instinct, for the classic narcissistic bookworm in both body and spirit. Let’s throw a novelty quill in there too, estimated at about the cost of the five cents worth of pen ink it took to include it into the story’s inventory.A newspaper violently strewn across the table lay open at about page 67, at the section dedicated to opinion pieces. A newspaper is always quite a curious source of inspiration to the way we set out our everyday lives. For many it forms a framing device to their daily routine as it is the first or last thing to be read, and sometimes both. What does one have to look forward to whilst eating their breakfast, travailing on the train or reposing after a long hard day’s work, in bed next to their spouse? The majority of a newspaper is made up of a formulaic concoction that always includes degrees of political agenda, crime, mystery, bloodshed, red herrings and fluff.I find newspapers quite ironic when you look at them as a whole, a famous author once wrote that ‘no event is ever correctly reported in a newspaper.’ However I believe it’s not a matter of error but inherent contradiction that riddles the reporting process. On page 67 there is an opinion piece in which the columnist claims that the tragic death of a famous celebrity was bought upon by the loose moral codes of a distinctly extreme left wing tendency of the murderers and berates this political premise for the majority of the article. If you turn to page 5 which reports the details of the crime the reporter speaks of the victim as a subject worthy of praise for his strong belief in his political convictions in the obituary like last paragraph of the article. The learned reader would know that the celebrity though in a comfortable financial and social position was himself a strong advocate of left wing politics. Politics aside a newspaper can be quite ironic when you look at it as a whole. Irony isn’t solely a weapon of the fiction writer, Irony can be very real. Then again I guess reality is more often than not ironic. The thousand words a picture can offer in a newspaper, is more often than not a 1001, as there is something always encrypted that only the most acute and discerning reader will pick up on, and often only on a second glance.I digress with philosophical ponderings, back to the story…… sorry just feeling a little woozy.

Oooh.. skull…Which brings me back to the architecture of my story.Zoom from the bookshelves onto the sturdy thickset mahogany wooden desk, with the stock standard desk lamp and zoom into a novelty skull, which silently screams a Shakespearian existential complex. The intellect within the page has novelised itself within the bric-a-brac, Ikea nesting instinct, for the classic narcissistic bookworm in both body and spirit. Let’s throw a novelty quill in there too, estimated at about the cost of the five cents worth of pen ink it took to include it into the story’s inventory.A newspaper violently strewn across the table lay open at about page 67, at the section dedicated to opinion pieces. A newspaper is always quite a curious source of inspiration to the way we set out our everyday lives. For many it forms a framing device to their daily routine as it is the first or last thing to be read, and sometimes both. What does one have to look forward to whilst eating their breakfast, travailing on the train or reposing after a long hard day’s work, in bed next to their spouse? The majority of a newspaper is made up of a formulaic concoction that always includes degrees of political agenda, crime, mystery, bloodshed, red herrings and fluff.I find newspapers quite ironic when you look at them as a whole, a famous author once wrote that ‘no event is ever correctly reported in a newspaper.’ However I believe it’s not a matter of error but inherent contradiction that riddles the reporting process. On page 67 there is an opinion piece in which the columnist claims that the tragic death of a famous celebrity was bought upon by the loose moral codes of a distinctly extreme left wing tendency of the murderers and berates this political premise for the majority of the article. If you turn to page 5 which reports the details of the crime the reporter speaks of the victim as a subject worthy of praise for his strong belief in his political convictions in the obituary like last paragraph of the article. The learned reader would know that the celebrity though in a comfortable financial and social position was himself a strong advocate of left wing politics. Politics aside a newspaper can be quite ironic when you look at it as a whole. Irony isn’t solely a weapon of the fiction writer, Irony can be very real. Then again I guess reality is more often than not ironic. The thousand words a picture can offer in a newspaper, is more often than not a 1001, as there is something always encrypted that only the most acute and discerning reader will pick up on, and often only on a second glance.I digress with philosophical ponderings, back to the story…… sorry just feeling a little woozy.The opinion piece seems to have some bits of the article underlined in red, with no logical connection, at least on first impressions, between them. Other items intact on the desk are a sample of books, works from Barthes, Darwin, Fowles, Nietzche, Russell and Wilde, a bottle of men’s cologne, a letter opener, a quill with dried out ink, a plate with a few crumbs left behind, half a glass of what is now curdled milk, all inconspicuous items. The exception of course being the suspected murder weapon a statue miniaturette of Lord Byron, which had dried congealed marks of blood suggesting the wound on the victim’s head was created by a blow to the head with this object. The murderer was obviously an amateur to leave the weapon behind and such evidence points to a spontaneous crime of passion.

Oooh.. skull…Which brings me back to the architecture of my story.Zoom from the bookshelves onto the sturdy thickset mahogany wooden desk, with the stock standard desk lamp and zoom into a novelty skull, which silently screams a Shakespearian existential complex. The intellect within the page has novelised itself within the bric-a-brac, Ikea nesting instinct, for the classic narcissistic bookworm in both body and spirit. Let’s throw a novelty quill in there too, estimated at about the cost of the five cents worth of pen ink it took to include it into the story’s inventory.A newspaper violently strewn across the table lay open at about page 67, at the section dedicated to opinion pieces. A newspaper is always quite a curious source of inspiration to the way we set out our everyday lives. For many it forms a framing device to their daily routine as it is the first or last thing to be read, and sometimes both. What does one have to look forward to whilst eating their breakfast, travailing on the train or reposing after a long hard day’s work, in bed next to their spouse? The majority of a newspaper is made up of a formulaic concoction that always includes degrees of political agenda, crime, mystery, bloodshed, red herrings and fluff.I find newspapers quite ironic when you look at them as a whole, a famous author once wrote that ‘no event is ever correctly reported in a newspaper.’ However I believe it’s not a matter of error but inherent contradiction that riddles the reporting process. On page 67 there is an opinion piece in which the columnist claims that the tragic death of a famous celebrity was bought upon by the loose moral codes of a distinctly extreme left wing tendency of the murderers and berates this political premise for the majority of the article. If you turn to page 5 which reports the details of the crime the reporter speaks of the victim as a subject worthy of praise for his strong belief in his political convictions in the obituary like last paragraph of the article. The learned reader would know that the celebrity though in a comfortable financial and social position was himself a strong advocate of left wing politics. Politics aside a newspaper can be quite ironic when you look at it as a whole. Irony isn’t solely a weapon of the fiction writer, Irony can be very real. Then again I guess reality is more often than not ironic. The thousand words a picture can offer in a newspaper, is more often than not a 1001, as there is something always encrypted that only the most acute and discerning reader will pick up on, and often only on a second glance.I digress with philosophical ponderings, back to the story…… sorry just feeling a little woozy.The opinion piece seems to have some bits of the article underlined in red, with no logical connection, at least on first impressions, between them. Other items intact on the desk are a sample of books, works from Barthes, Darwin, Fowles, Nietzche, Russell and Wilde, a bottle of men’s cologne, a letter opener, a quill with dried out ink, a plate with a few crumbs left behind, half a glass of what is now curdled milk, all inconspicuous items. The exception of course being the suspected murder weapon a statue miniaturette of Lord Byron, which had dried congealed marks of blood suggesting the wound on the victim’s head was created by a blow to the head with this object. The murderer was obviously an amateur to leave the weapon behind and such evidence points to a spontaneous crime of passion.So our victim was at his desk reading his paper and eating a sandwich and drinking milk when the murderer came in…. oooh dear I seem to be seeing dots of red in front of me and nothing else whilst I try write this…

Oooh.. skull…Which brings me back to the architecture of my story.Zoom from the bookshelves onto the sturdy thickset mahogany wooden desk, with the stock standard desk lamp and zoom into a novelty skull, which silently screams a Shakespearian existential complex. The intellect within the page has novelised itself within the bric-a-brac, Ikea nesting instinct, for the classic narcissistic bookworm in both body and spirit. Let’s throw a novelty quill in there too, estimated at about the cost of the five cents worth of pen ink it took to include it into the story’s inventory.A newspaper violently strewn across the table lay open at about page 67, at the section dedicated to opinion pieces. A newspaper is always quite a curious source of inspiration to the way we set out our everyday lives. For many it forms a framing device to their daily routine as it is the first or last thing to be read, and sometimes both. What does one have to look forward to whilst eating their breakfast, travailing on the train or reposing after a long hard day’s work, in bed next to their spouse? The majority of a newspaper is made up of a formulaic concoction that always includes degrees of political agenda, crime, mystery, bloodshed, red herrings and fluff.I find newspapers quite ironic when you look at them as a whole, a famous author once wrote that ‘no event is ever correctly reported in a newspaper.’ However I believe it’s not a matter of error but inherent contradiction that riddles the reporting process. On page 67 there is an opinion piece in which the columnist claims that the tragic death of a famous celebrity was bought upon by the loose moral codes of a distinctly extreme left wing tendency of the murderers and berates this political premise for the majority of the article. If you turn to page 5 which reports the details of the crime the reporter speaks of the victim as a subject worthy of praise for his strong belief in his political convictions in the obituary like last paragraph of the article. The learned reader would know that the celebrity though in a comfortable financial and social position was himself a strong advocate of left wing politics. Politics aside a newspaper can be quite ironic when you look at it as a whole. Irony isn’t solely a weapon of the fiction writer, Irony can be very real. Then again I guess reality is more often than not ironic. The thousand words a picture can offer in a newspaper, is more often than not a 1001, as there is something always encrypted that only the most acute and discerning reader will pick up on, and often only on a second glance.I digress with philosophical ponderings, back to the story…… sorry just feeling a little woozy.The opinion piece seems to have some bits of the article underlined in red, with no logical connection, at least on first impressions, between them. Other items intact on the desk are a sample of books, works from Barthes, Darwin, Fowles, Nietzche, Russell and Wilde, a bottle of men’s cologne, a letter opener, a quill with dried out ink, a plate with a few crumbs left behind, half a glass of what is now curdled milk, all inconspicuous items. The exception of course being the suspected murder weapon a statue miniaturette of Lord Byron, which had dried congealed marks of blood suggesting the wound on the victim’s head was created by a blow to the head with this object. The murderer was obviously an amateur to leave the weapon behind and such evidence points to a spontaneous crime of passion.So our victim was at his desk reading his paper and eating a sandwich and drinking milk when the murderer came in…. oooh dear I seem to be seeing dots of red in front of me and nothing else whilst I try write this……trying to focus. Yes that’s where I was, the murderer came in, except they couldn’t even imagine in their strangest dream at that point as identifying themself as a murderer. They started talking, he got furious, he dipped his pen in the ink. Sorry, scrap that. They got into an animated argument, harsh words were said, wild hand gestures were in abundance and before anyone knew it the victim was struck over the head with the statue.

Right. That fits doesn’t it? But why the red markings on the paper or the scrunched up bits of paper on the floor? This isn’t making any clear sense. This story is going nowhere. I’m…going nowhere. My head is spinning. All I can see is black.

Pitch blackness… with flashes of red. Even my senses have given up in trying.

I just can’t keep up my charade anymore, I guess I am a failed author after all.

There is a body on the floor. And yes in case you hadn’t figured it, this time it’s mine. My detective fiction I’m sure you have read, but this is my first and last attempt at autobiography, at writing myself onto or into the page. Writer’s block is ugly, it’s death for an author. My well of ideas has run dry, so has my storage bank. No plot lines left for me literally. Writing has been my lifeblood and alas now my lifeblood is in writing, at least irony isn’t lost in THE END. I’ve exhaausted every character, my only option is to transcribe the only vehicle I have left at my disposal, myself. I’ve beat the clock.

Tick. Tock.

Drives you nuts batty when you flesh out ideas in the middle of the night, when everything else is in its somnolent hour and you’re the only thing stirring. Zombie nights no more, just an END, a total to the sum of all these half-lived nights.

Don’t let this tragic end deter you from my earlier body of work; my arrogant ego the same one driving me to this selfish escape from inevitable ineptitude, hopes to live posthumously. My last solace is that maybe you, whoever you may be anonymous reader of this final note, record of my life, or should I say death will find some, unforeseen by myself, value in my musings, even pleasure. For it would be more of a morbid crime for this note to fall on deaf ears or should I say blind vision, the vain writer that I am, I do wish even in my death to enlighten and ignite the spark of innumerable possibility in my reader.

Time is selling me short, I must fare thee well as I can’t write much longer, my ink is running out my ink is running out blood is, it’s such a finite limited scarc source this red stuff pigment. Art imitates life life imitates art or is it the other way round. Funny that… never could quite pinpoint…

Writer's Block

wrabbit

Joined January 2008

  • Artist
    Notes

Artist's Description

A story about a murder mystery writer’s struggle to execute a piece of fiction. Some visual aspects of the original story don’t translate into the formatting but still readable.

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