Writers Block, What now? - Yandere X Reader

Words.

Have you ever painted a picture with words? Something so beautiful, even you yourself look back on it with pride. Words that captured a feeling just like you wanted it, they captured a certain aesthetic that just made you adore them. When words describe something so vividly, you can't help but fall in love. It's language like that that just made you love writing, isn't it? It is perfectly odd how words can make you imagine things so vivid, beautiful, thorned roses, even nine feet tall pitch black, void figures.

There is a downside. The feeling of having peaked. After all, it only downhill from there... Maybe that's the reason it sat as a file in the computer. It was taking up space, yet the heart wouldn't let you delete it. The hours you spent slaving away for these characters, the days you spend thinking and dreaming of their world. You managed to get an impressive forty-eight chapters into the book. None of that mattered as long as it didn't have an end. The book could be a thousand pages long, it still couldn't be released without that final page. That's just how books worked.

I guess it could always be released as a cliffhanger but somehow that felt wrong. Like a disservice to the characters, that weren't even real to protest. It was just words, a pile of words made to look pretty. An ending, the ending... I suppose, everything must end. I, however, have always found myself not enjoying endings. And maybe, that's why you found yourself hovering over the delete option.

No, not delete, forgive my wording. The trash option. The trash option, huh. If you clicked it, would it mean all your hard work was trash? It had taken hours off of your life, days to even have gotten this far. Would it mean the characters were trash as well? The ones you crafted painstakingly and loved vicariously. You were close, close to the ending everyone loves, that every book needs. Every story has one. That was not a secret. I wonder why someone would put in so much work just to ruin it. It was like those videos; the kind of gorgeous art being destroyed by its creator. That was for shock value, but I wonder why someone would do that without anyone present to shock.

Red is the color of passion, yet your book cover was going to be gray.

It was a chain reaction. Honestly no one had anything to do with it, not God, not man, not a soul or any other entity. As soon as your mouse clicked the trash option, you had gotten a headache. A splitting one, years of your life, gone. The headache was a reaction your body had to all the work being gone. It was just that simple to explain. What else could it possibly be? We had already removed every option.

Now, why had you done it? That was a simple question, yet a hard answer. A bitter pill if you will, the kind you take while you're fresh out of water. You weren't a writer. You were just a regular person, the regular who can't live off of writing. You weren't an actor whose book would sell out in three days. Nor were you a Stephenie Meyers or a Suzanne Collins whose books would just get that popular. You were a regular person.

That's not to say you weren't creative, the forty-eight-page book would have been proof to that.

It was a chain reaction, you have a headache, you go to sleep. Maybe take something to soothe it beforehand. Your heart had been racing when you removed the book from your life. You would no longer be thinking of the book you hadn't even named. It would just stay like that: "Book". A heartbreakingly boring name for the characters and world it once contained, but you no longer had to think of that. Instead of thinking, or sleeping, with the headache you now had. You went to work stripping your desk of the thousands of papers with idea's on and inside of it.

A completely empty notebook, the very first page being the only one with writing. It just had character names and ideas. You were never good at naming. Azel, the main character of the series name printed in your handwriting at the top line, just below the white gape a title should have been put. You ripped the single page out and threw it away. You had many notebooks like that one, sprinkled with random pages containing ideas for the book. You did keep a main notebook, but for now you'd throw that away last.

You'd never be an author, why would you want to be? It sounds like a boring job anyway. It had to be.

You'd spend an hour writing, just to come out with 800 words. That was exhausting. It was like the bottom of the page never ended. There was always more detail, more to write, more thoughts the characters had. More things that had happened.

You went too bed. Nothing strange happened at all. It was a dream.

"You look like you hit your head there mate'." A voice? A voice in darkness, you had your eyes closed. Of course you did, you were trying too sleep. Was someone in your house? Who was it? How did they get in! Hit your head? You never hit your head, what was this voice talking about?

You woke up. You sat up and saw a bearded man. It was a stumble, but the male in front of you looked like the type too insist it was a beard. He looked familiar, not like someone you've met before but someone you've dreamt of before, imagined before. He cracked his neck and you cringed at the action. You didn't care about the sound; you weren't really that kind of person. It was just the action itself you found unsettling.

The man seemed too have noticed because he glanced at you. He gave you a pearly smile and extended his hand. He had nicer teeth than you thought he would. Now that you were looking at him, he had a nice face as well. He was dressed in rags, but he had a nice face and not too bad of a body either. He had to be at least ten years older than you. You never even realized you were on the floor. Hey, weren't you in bed? "Nice to meet you, lassie, my names Tucker." He introduced himself, his sailor accent was thick on his tongue, like a permanent marker on paper.

What a coincidence. That was the name of a character in your book. It was a brief and fleeting thought. Not one you'd give more than three seconds too. You took his hand. He had rough hands you noticed, rough like a cat's tongue. Maybe it was a bad comparison, something so cute to a man who was rugged. He smelt like fish and sea air. He looked like he needed a shower. It wasn't that bad, but it was noticeable.

Green eyes and black hair, no, he had blue hair, dark blue. It was tinted, like his natural hair was black and he had been wanting to dye it but not bleach it. "Really?" You asked, you didn't even know why you had asked it. What was their question about his words? Was it surprising that he shared a name with a character? Tucker was not an uncommon name, at least not enough for so few people to be named that you'd never meet one. "Oh, my name is Y/n." You introduced yourself before he could respond.

It was weird. He gave a kind of knowing smile and nodded at you. "Aye." he said, then he pulled you up too your feet. You hadn't even noticed you were still on the hard floor. Where were you? You were in bed two seconds ago. Why hadn't the adrenaline of being somewhere new set in?

Then you woke up.

It made sense. In dreams you never feel a sense of danger or much of anything unless it's a nightmare. Things don't have to make sense in dreams. You hadn't even realized while you were sleeping that that man you were speaking too was Tucker Al' Mulon, a completely made-up character.