Painful Creativity
A written down example of how I've felt since my last story. I'm not a receptionist nor I work in a hospital, but every feeling described here is quite true on how me, as a writer, feels with this cursed creativity block.
Months have passed since I last touched a pen for creativity means. All I've done is sign papers with my own name and write down documents. The only creativity I'd get at those moments would be when I'd just stop and look into the vending machine in front of my desk, where my mind would lose itself into the glowing colors coming from it. The sound of the fan in it providing background noise as my whole body would come to a stop save for my tapping foot and twitching ears, eyes wandering blankly into that vending machine whilst my head pulled out a story from its mental folder and imagined it play out so nicely like a movie, a TV show and in video game form.
Yet, when I pick up that pen and slide those documents away to write on a blank sheet something down, all the creativity in my head, all that imagination, all those visual representations of something completely original coming from my mind are replaced with a hollow, endless hole into the abyss of nothing. I shake. The tip of the pen touches the paper as I try to write something down, something, at least something, that could be related to what I was so high on, those visual representations of action scenes, with the main character running around, defeating the enemies with difficulty but efficiency, taking some hits, giving more, all those visuals suddenly turn into a black and white stone-like sculpture.
Frustrated, the pen falls from my hand onto the wooden desk with an impact noise that only gets the ability to be loud thanks to the void reception room where only I am in. Leaning back, I sigh, reaching to my head, palms caressing down my furry face as I sigh. A side of my head is in pain thanks to the heat inside of this hospital. I stand up, groaning off the uncomfortable office chair, getting a penny from my pocket and heading to the vending machine ahead. Maybe a drink will help refresh things. I press the button for Pepsi and the can falls below. I reach inside to grab it, the coldness of it pleasing my palm even if it made it a tad numb and I press it against the side of my head to save myself from such hot weather.
I sit back down on my uncomfortable office chair as I crack open the can, gulping down the drink and placing it on my desk afterwards. Swallowing it down, I can feel it get rid of some of the warmth already in me. I pick up the pen again, placing it back against the page as I try to find a way to kick things off for this story, but I still don't have anything. I can't come up with anything. For months of imagination, when I get an opportunity to let my artistic side flow, nothing comes out. Absolutely nothing.
The headache comes back and the pen falls from my hand again, this time on the ground as I slam my elbows on the desk and grab at the hair that surrounds my ears. My glasses slide off my face and I hear a terrible sounding crack, the sound of the left lens breaking. I pick them back up and slide them on again, the crack not really damaging much my ability to see, but still a big annoyance nonetheless. I sigh in frustration, as I reach down to pick up the pen and put my fist over that paper again. I will write something. I must.
The tip touches the paper again and I begin to write an opening. An introduction. A way to get this story going, a starter for all of the action that I plan to write out. I only pause to stop and sip some of my Pepsi as I continuously write whatever comes into my mind, only pausing to think of names that take only a second or two to pop into my mind. Oh yes. The writing fever has gotten me. After so many months, I madly begin to chuckle as I finally get to do what I've been wanting to for so long, write a story on paper, not just picture it out in my mind, not just a plan a concept. I will become a writer now, I will publish this story in a book, gain a following, gain money and become a famous example of American literature. I'm a writer now. I know who I am. I've found my purpose. Fuck this hospital. Fuck this reception desk. This is my true job, a true, skilled writer.
I stop and then realize. All I've written down is nothing but lines moving in wave form, up and down. The writing fever ends and I realize, I haven't written anything at all. I look up to the clock and realize it's been a whole hour since the beginning of this madness. My writing had gone so far off that it went past the sheet paper and on the desk. Shaking, breathing hard and absolutely hot, I collapse onto the ground thanks to the heat wave. The last thing I feel as I close my eyes, is that fucking cold can of Pepsi hitting my face as the world darkens around me.