Short Stories and Other Creative Waste

Block

A booming shockwave engulfed the room as the glass fell. Out of pure frustration, I slung it from my desk and sent it soaring farther than I was willing to walk. A gaping lack of motivation rooted me to my seat and willed me to give up, but a gnawing urge to write tugged at my brain, refusing to let me settle with defeat. An hour ago I sat down, believing that I was going to relieve my stress through writing, but my hands were heavy as lead, and my mind as lifeless as coal. I was suffering from a writer's block, and it festered with time. Any ideas I had loomed just outside of my grasp and refused to cooperate, and I remained at my desk, waiting for an idea to finally surface. My waiting, however, was in vain, for my writers block was not the kind to be cured with time, but the kind to be cured with action. I eventually realized that waiting was not the answer, so I began to look at my problem from different angles. "How can I escape these shackles?" I asked myself repeatedly. "Escape". I wrote this single word on a sheet of paper. "Escape". I wrote it again. "Escape. Escape. Escape." I wrote it over and over, repeating until I had filled the entire page. I then glared at the page as if it were a white flag, flapping proudly in the wind as it announced my failure to the world. This anger grew and burned like fuel, becoming energy. This energy built up inside me, as if I was a glorified battery. As is a batteries job, I discharged this energy onto a new sheet of paper, writing what I believed to be nonsense. I looked down to discover that I had begun writing. I did not know what I was writing about, but I was writing. I had declared victory over my writer's block.