He has bigger issues than what to write.

I need to write something . . . I don’t have anything to say. I’ll ask a couple of questions, but I may have reached the limit today; there’s nothing but dim dusty-space stirring in my mind. Oh here’s something, coming along, but it’s just a dream that I said goodbye to already, before I knew what was bad. I’m talking to myself because I need to write, I need to get words on the computer, but I’m scared.

—What are you scared will happen?

That I’ll do something wrong. That I’ll say the wrong thing and someone will look at me real quick and see my eyes and know I was watching them, and then I’ll feel small, like they’ll know all my secrets, like everyone knows my secrets, and I would be so disgusting, and pathetic, and small, and; how dare I call so much attention to myself with nothing to show for it good or bad?

—Is that them asking you?


—Mm. Who are you worried will look at you?

People. Another boy, a young man in chocolate-brown hair and freckled face. He’s wearing a pale denim jacket with flower-print patches sown behind the neck like Ely Terraces on TV, and he just shakes his head at me and that’s how I know he knows and—and—how is this helping me write? Give me ideas you worthless brain: not words!

—Where are you?

Oh, that’s a good one! Okay, let’s see; I’m in a cathedral on a high snowy mountain on the watch tower, alone, looking over the edge and not seeing a bottom through the white wind—no, not wind, not snow, but a—fan? Yes. A fan blowing on my left and . . . wait, now . . . Yep, now I’m at my desk again. Drat! There, you see? I lost it, I had something but I let it go . . . I really need to write something!

This has been a quick sketch of a poor writer with writer’s block. Cheers.






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