Writer's Block

Greg's mind was a blank, completely devoid of thoughts. Well, relevant thoughts, anyway. He knew what he had to write about – he'd been given a writing prompt – but that was as far as he'd got. He didn't usually work from writing prompts; he normally had an idea in his mind – an original thought that originated from he knew not where – before sitting down at his desk and starting to write. It was an almost magical process, as if his chair, the desk, or even his computer already contained the story and he simply provided the conduit which allowed the story to escape from wherever it had been nestling.

But this time was different. The chair, desk, and computer seemed to be bereft of ideas. As, ipso facto, was his mind.

He took a sip of water from the glass tumbler that was his constant companion whilst writing. It wasn't there to alleviate dryness in his throat – it wasn't as if he needed his voice to write – but his wife had threatened him with dire punishment if he didn't drink at least six glasses of water each day. He preferred his water chilled but, of course, it couldn't remain in that condition forever. Room temperature would eventually force its way into the glass and the water therein would lose its refreshing sensation, becoming at one with its surroundings – thermally speaking.

Tabitha, his ingeniously named tabby cat, leapt onto his desk. The animal looked over at her owner quizzically, as if wanting to know what ailed her master. Of course, master and pet was how Greg considered their relationship but Tabitha knew the truth of the matter – she was in charge. The cat didn't have to do anything for Greg in return for food and water; she had the human well-trained. If she wanted to go outside, all she had to do was wait beside the door and eventually Greg would get up and open the door for her. If Tabitha wanted to drink from the tap, she simply had to leap onto the draining board and wait for Greg to notice. The human would then stop whatever he was doing, walk over to the sink, and turn on the tap. The flow of water must be neither too strong nor too weak but Greg seemed to know this instinctively and never let it flow too quickly or too slowly. Greg was the perfect servant.

Greg stretched out his hand and tickled his furry friend under the chin. Tabitha particularly enjoyed this and it was almost her favourite show of affection from her human friend, but her real favourite thing for Greg to do was to draw his nails down the cat's back from her neck to just in front of her tail, causing the animal to stretch her neck, move her head from side to side, and blink excitedly. Greg's nails were spectacularly blunt – unlike her own claws – but they did the trick. Greg didn't need to know why Tabitha enjoyed it – suffice to say, that if Greg had been a male cat, one thing would probably have led to another.

Greg looked at his feline friend.

"Well, Tabitha? Any ideas? I need some help."

The cat blinked at her master; she'd allow the human to think that he was the one in control.

"So, what's this story about then, Greg? What's the conflict? Who's the main character? What's his or her driving force? Are you after a happy ending, a cliffhanger, or a surprise, shocking ending?"

All Greg heard was a series of meows. He knew it was a waste of time asking the cat. Cats knew how to groom themselves and occasionally hunt small rodents, birds, and insects. They didn't know the first thing about creative writing.

For her part, although frustrated by the inability of the human to understand her language, Tabitha knew what would cheer Greg up. She ducked her head down, advanced a couple of paces, and nuzzled her nose into his cheek. It had the desired effect and Greg's half-frown dissolved into a half-smile. A full smile wasn't an option as Greg still had to find some words – four or five thousand of them to be exact – with which to fill his Word document, but the cat's show of affection did cheer him up a little.