All pencils, fingers, or pens still. From Tokyo to Brazil. They stare menacingly at their paper, or screen blank. One's who partake in the act of literature know what I mean. It's like worst than the scariest prank. A writer's worst enemy besides judgment. The wall. The stop. The 'dot dot dot'. It's like you been brain shot.
The authors all at the same time in different time zones groan and lean back. Doing their thinking habits; scratching their heads, licking/biting their lips, playing with their sleeves, tapping their writing utensil. Pondering hard. 'What next?', they say to themselves.
The next minutes are stress. Their physical appearance becoming a mess. Needing to continue the next part, at least one sentence. They look around to clear their mind trying to get inspiration they can find. And....nothing.
The writers on different continents now look over their work so far with a sigh. Thinking if they reread what they have the next scene or phrase will pop on their head. Editing along the way they zone out into their reading stage, until once again they are on the next page that is still blank.
Giving it a few moments they wait. Huffing and frustrating display they think harder. The clock they watch tic seconds, to minutes, to a full hour. They give up and save their draft, close the notebook, put the papers in folders and will try another day or in the next hours. Disappointed they go on about their day or sleep hoping they will get an idea soon.
They have writer's block. It's the worst sickness a author could catch. Oh how awful the emptiness they feel to linger on the deadline and untouched pages. It boggles all writers of gender and ages.
