The Blood a Pen Bleeds.

Prologue: The Pain of an Author

He stared intently at the page in front of him, trying to focus in on the blue lines the crossed it multiple times. But it was blurry, he realized he was only focused on the pen that had not moved. He was unaware of how much time had passed. He did not care to know. As far as he was concerned time was a trivial thing in the world of writing, and deadlines served only to kill creativity. However it did bother him, though he seldom let himself admit, that his pen had not moved in several days. Although he knew it had been more than several days, in fact it had been several years since he picked up that very pen. It had been several years since he wrote anything. He tried to not let that bother him but it did, somewhere deep inside.

        Why did there have to be indents? Why should quotes start a new paragraph? Why do so many letters have to be capitalized? Now there are empty spaces that could have been more words. Now only half of the page is taken up, and it looks lopsided. Now there is attention drawn towards letters with little significance to the story. These are the thoughts he thought. All of these rules he had to memorize had no meaning to him, they only served to aggravate him. All of his focus was now on correcting details that have no direct impact, instead of creating a story that resonates with the readers. For the first time ever his thought drifted towards his readers, where they growing impatient? Did they really care if  he never wrote again? He did not think so. He reasoned there are millions of books in this world, why read his, only to have to wait for a conclusion. What if there was no conclusion? He thought with anger that he should have finished it with one novel, because back then he was able to focus.

He let out a deep sigh, and murmured a few ideas. He was thinking frantically, and the sounds in his head were so loud he thought he would go deaf. An observer would not believe those words, because in reality there was nothing but dead silence. Even the birds had stopped singing to witness this terrible, inward raging battle, and for a moment they respected the values he was fighting for, and the courage he was fighting with. He did not, in fact, realize that nobody had called in a while. He did not think that it was odd, even though it seemed like not that long ago the house was filled with that annoying ringing alerting him to another signing or update of sales.

He fought valiantly. He fought everything inside him, begging his conscious for words. Anything. Any original idea that he could use as a spark with witch he could set the pages on fire, and watch his enemy burn away with the scattered ashes of a masterpiece. He never asked himself who this enemy was. He didn't really care to know, faces don't matter. It would not change his purpose. He used his writing as a sword and shield against an enemy he knew nothing about, not even a name. Names don't matter, even if they are symbolic. He knew a true author didn't need need names, he didn't need faces either. He could do all of that with words; but he could not access those words. Immediately with this thought he returned back to his reality. That was the pen laying next to the empty sheets of paper, on a desk clean of everything else, in a silent house, on a lonely street. Everything else about the world he did not know. He did not care to know.

He thought back to where his insecurity started. When did he become so cynical about his own work? As much as it sickened him, he knew people would read anything he wrote even if it was garbage. He could spit on a page and millions would buy it. So if he even put a little effort into it, only God knew what he could accomplish. He thought back to where this started. His depression. When did this start? After his major success. When was this? About 7 years ago. Ever since then his mailbox had been full with letters begging for a conclusion. He received them up to this day. Why did he feel this depression? He thought back, but it was difficult. 7 years of nothingness had clouded his vision, it had jaded his mind, he was not the same man. He tries to think of why his major success, had angered him so much, has filled him with rage. But he couldn't.

He stood up with vigor and pressed his fingers to his temple. He pressed them until he thought he would penetrate his skull, and dig into his own brain, maybe he would find the answer there. He forced himself to think back. To understand.

Everything in his body ached.
Was this the death of an author?