I breathed deeply, the thick smell of coffee mixing with the crisp perfume of a fine, cool morning. My eyes lingered on the small front yard from my view on the narrow porch, watching as a few cars roared by, their engines marring the nice morning silence. I waved to my neighbor as he slipped out of his house.
Sighing, I returned my gaze to the notebook before me. I smiled. Blank and fresh. So many options...options?
I grimaced. What to write....what to write. I felt I had slammed into a giant wall, and I was itching to get through it, for the feeling of words spilling out of my mind once again. I was stuck in the mud, and I was spinning my wheels.
Tap, tap, tap, tap. I drummed my pencil against the paper. I needed inspiration.
Groaning, I stood from my chair, grabbed my coffee and writing equipment, and made my way into the living room. My housemates Jerry and Lewis were already up. Jerry was seated on the couch flipping through the TV channels, and Lewis was in the kitchen fixing his lunch for the day for when he had to go to work.
"How'd it go?" Lewis asked.
"How'd what go?" I replied.
"Your 'masterpiece'. How's it working out?"
I shrugged, plopping down next to Jerry. "I dunno. I'm considering tearing it out and burning it."
"It can't be that bad," Jerry said.
"It's not that it's horrific...I've just caught a case of writer's block."
"Writer's block?" Jerry grinned. "You can catch that?"
I rolled my eyes, and pushed myself off the couch. "I'm getting ready for work." Work. Maybe something at work would satisfy me. I worked as one of the librarians in our town's small library. It didn't pay a lot, but I was around my best of friends-books.
I dressed, grabbed a piece of fruit, and bid farewell to the two others. As I closed the door behind me, I tripped over something on the front step.
"Humph," I muttered, looking down at a small brown package. Bending over, I picked it up and examined it. It had my name and address written on it in fine handwriting. There was no return address. Curiously, I tore it open, revealing a nice silver and red pen, with the mysterious word Watollia on it in a similar handwritting style.
Still wondering about the strange pen, I tucked it in my shirt pocket and continued on to my car. As I drove, I still could think of nothing other than that peculiar pen and after a few moments I had to take it out and observe it again. I could hear the sentences coming in my head, words falling into place, and a plot blooming. Hum....I needed I piece of paper. It felt as if it was spilling from me, overflowing.
I sped to the library, leaping out of my car, and rushing into the library where the other librarian, May, stood arranging a display. She had worked there for an eternity, and I swore she looked like she was picked from the days of the Salem Witch Trials. "Morning, James," she croaked.
"Morning!" I called, hurrying behind the desk and snatching the first piece of paper I laid my eyes on, instantly beginning to scratch down the first things that had come into my mind.
"Goodness, James, what's the urgency?" she interrupted my thought process. I mumbled something I didn't even understand as I continued to scribble. She shook her head. "I will never understand you, boy. No wonder you don't have a girlfriend, you never take enough time for one."
I chuckled as I added the last period and stood from my position, bent closely over the paper. Pushing my glasses to my face, I rapidly scanned the words, correting a few errors as I went along. Hum. I had never written anything like this before, at least in a long time.
"The Queen of Watollia was very nervous. The King and his men had travelled far, to kill the dreaded Dragon that was haunting their kingdom, and he had not returned yet. Two weeks it had been and yet there was no word from him.
"She had long sat at her window at his departure, staring out it, anxious for their return. From her view at the window, Watollia was certainly magnificent. Being between the towering forrests, where the Elves settled, and the spectacular mountains, where the dwarves lived, they were highly protected.
Just then a knock came on the door...."
This was certainly a whole different genre than my own comfort zone, though it came so easily and smoothly. It felt quite good, after so long of being held back by my own self and ideas, or rather, lack thereof. I titled my head, smiling, as I picked up this pen.
I tucked the paper in my pocket for later, a steady stream of words and ideas playing like music in my head as I began organizing some books.