Writer's Block (standard:humor, 1233 words)
Author: Rene Amador	Added: Feb 11 2002	Views/Reads: 3486/2348	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
It hard enough trying to get an idea without so many distractions and obstacles.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

worse.  There was nothing else he could do now except take a break.  He 
got his keys from the table next to the desk and his wallet from the 
couch.  Neil knocked on the door. 

The bar was crowded.  Typical Friday night: a mixture of regular
barflies and groups of college kids.  Not many interesting people. 
Their conversations were mundane.  Victor made his way to the bar and 
bumped into a woman sitting in one the wicker chairs.  He said he was 
sorry and they exchanged pleasantries.  One thing led to another and 
they began talking.  Before he realized it, Victor had talked to this 
woman for at least two hours.  Not just meaningless banter, but a real 
conversation.  The words flowed naturally and unrestricted.  It 
reminded Victor of the way people used to talk, or at least the idea of 
how people talked, captured on films from the thirties and forties. 

She was telling an amusing anecdote, when suddenly a creative wave
crested and fell on top of Victor soaking him from head to toe in 
inspiration.  He realized that if he didn't get out of that bar and 
rush home it would all be lost.  He excused himself and bolted out the 
door.  Victor couldn't believe it.  A sense of relief filled inside 
him.  It felt as if this burst of genius would be just the thing to 
break him from this rut.  That was until he ran into the person around 
the next corner.  It was Sheila. 

Victor hadn't seen Sheila all week.  He had enough stress in his life
and she would just make things worse.  "Where have you been, stranger?  
I tried calling you all last week." 

"I'm sorry.  Really, I am.  Things have been up in the air lately. 
Now's not a good time to talk.  Can I call you later, though?  I was 
just to talking to this woman in the bar and if I don't get home….." 

"What?!?!?  What did you just say?"  Before Victor could defend himself,
Sheila delivered a kick exactly where it would hurt the most.  Victor 
dropped to the ground, his knees hitting the pavement then rolling over 
on his side.  That one thought raced in his head but it was quickly 
losing steam.  It was gone. 

Victor limped into his apartment and headed straight to the kitchen,
opened the freezer and emptied two ice cube trays into a re-sealable 
plastic bag.  The pain was so great that not even an iceberg from the 
chilling Antarctic could help him.  It felt like the heat generating 
from the pain was melting the ice.   He sat down at the desk, almost 
reflexively, in front of the computer.  He powered it up and brought up 
a blank page.  It didn't come back.  He tried to replay the night's 
events in his mind, hoping he would remember the idea, but that didn't 
work.  He got up and paced back and forth in front of the desk.  
Finally he stopped, holding the ice in front of himself, and glared at 
the computer.  He stood there for almost a full minute.  His eyes 
locked on the screen.  Nothing.  Not one thing.  It was pointless to 
stare at it.  It wasn't at fault.  Victor gave up and went to his room. 
 He lay down.  He looked up at the ceiling then closed his eyes.  
‘How much longer?' he thought.  Not only was this the longest bout of 
writer's block it was without a doubt his most painful. 


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