(This is a short story I wrote based on how uncreative I've been feeling. It kinda picked me up out of my rut so here you go. Also it's an actual story instead of poetry. Diversity, yo.)
I couldn't help but wonder how this was possible. I desperately want to write, but every time my pen touches paper, a spark of electricity streaks through me.
It's not like I have anything to write. My inspiration is completely dried up. Maybe it's a symptom of chronic emptiness.
I sigh and drop the pen. This was no use. No matter how hard I try, I just can not write anything. I get up and make my way to the refrigerator. I scan over the food, searching for anything appealing. Alas, I can't find anything to eat, so I trudge back to my room. Maybe reading a book will help me find some inspiration.
None of the books on my disorganized bookshelf look interesting at all. I decide to go to my last resort, the internet. I promised myself to not use any electronics before bed, as that worsens my insomnia, but nothing else was working. I had run out of sleep meds a few days ago and I haven't found the motivation to get more. I made a mental note to get more the next day.
For now, though, I'll just indulge myself in the internet. That'll definitely help...
I wake up in complete disarray. My phone is ringing, so I go to answer it. I somehow lost my pen, and the paper that I was trying to write on is wet with my drool. Gross. But now my alarm is beeping, and I realize that I have to go to work. Oh joy.
I work for The Bristol Times, a newspaper that was popular in my town. It pays relatively well, but it's hard to write when I'm lacking the inspiration, which happens to be often. The commute to the office would be fairly short, but it seems like every light I come across is red.
"Good morning, Amelia," my boss greets me, smiling. I don't really know how he's so positive all the time.
"Morning," I mutter. I really need coffee. Usually the line at the coffee machine isn't very long, but today it seems to take forever.
I step into my office contently, holding my coffee. My heart almost stops as I see the stack of papers on my desk.
"Hey, Amelia! Fred was out, so I hope you don't mind doing his work!" My enthusiastic coworker says. People here are so energetic, but it sucks the life out of me.
"I guess. Next time I'm not doing it, though," I give in to his request. I might as well get started instead of whining about it. I sit down in my chair and begin to leaf through the papers. There's so many forms that need to be filled out. Does Fred do this every day?
When I finally finish with the papers, I turn to my computer and sigh. Today I have to write an article about Noah McKee, the Republican presidential candidate. I honestly couldn't care less about him or the election, but I want my paycheck, so I'll just have to grit my teeth and bear it.
As my finger touches the keyboard, I feel the same electric shock running through me as I did last night. I try it again, and the same thing happens. What the hell is going on?
I try to touch the keyboard with a tissue on my hand, but the shock still comes. I'm trying not to freak out, but I do anyway because I can't write the article. I don't know why this happening. Last night it worked just fine as I surfed the internet. I was fine writing on the papers, too. This is all too weird.
I eventually settle for using the on-screen keyboard, although it makes writing harder than it should be. I'm getting many weird looks from my coworkers, but I have no other choice. Let's just say that I have never hated Noah McKee this much.
As soon as my shift ends, I feel so much relief. I decide to ask on Yahoo Answers, (the best place to go when you have a question /s) and soon after someone replies.
"I've had this problem too. But trust me, it isn't a serious health problem or anything. Well, it kinda is. Basically, you're hallucinating. Because of your severe lack of inspiration, your brain associates typing or writing with pain. It sounds weird, but it's true. All you need to do is find some inspiration."
My mouth is practically on the floor by the time I finish reading. I'm hallucinating? So none of it is real. I also can't think of any ways to find inspiration. I've been trying for a while, but now it's serious.
All of this hallucination drama causes me to think. My brain associates writing with pain. I used to love writing, but now I can barely even pick up a pen or type stuff on a computer. How do I find my passion for writing again?
I begrudgingly begin to search for ways to cure writer's block. Many of the suggestions are good ones, and I want to write them down but then I realize I can't.
None of the suggestions actually help. Some of the things I did used to help back when my writer's block wasn't this severe, but now everything is complicated. It's making my brain hurt. I sigh and flop onto my bed, exasperated.
But then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a journal. My old journal that I wrote in during middle school. I pull it off the shelf, brushing the dust off. I open the book to see a table of contents. I was a very organized person back then, compared to how I am now.
Suddenly I notice the section titled 'Brainstorming.' Maybe this could help with my writer's block! I open to that page and find many fantastical ideas. Some of them had been elaborated on, and one I even went as far as to create an outline. I decide to go with that one.
I gruelingly open up the on-screen keyboard. I'm willing to use it if it means that I can write again. I don't even bother adding a title.
After what seemed like hours, I stare admiringly at the pages of writing I had created. I reluctantly put a finger to the keyboard, and to my pleasure, nothing happens. I pull up an empty notepad and spam random letters and numbers, basking in the relief of my renewed inspiration. Finally I can write again!
The next day as I walk into the office, I happily greet my boss. He stares at me incredulously, but I don't mind.
"Good morning! Isn't the weather nice today?" I smile at him and practically float to my desk. My coworkers are also surprised by my sudden enthusiasm. I ignore them, and begin working on the papers that Fred should be doing.
It's finally gone. I never thought that my writer's block would be gone, but it is.
