A simple story about a young authors struggle to get finish their novel for publication, and the challenges that writers block presents.

The screen is white. A single line flashes against the blank document.

“Write,” it begs me. “Please write something”.

I begin to type. Slowly at first, but gaining speed as one would if they were running, becoming surer of their footing with each step. I can’t stop what’s happening – my fingers flying over the keys, faster than they’ve ever gone before. Suddenly…

They stop.

I stop.

I’m at a loss.

I scan the words before me. 76. I could have sworn that I’d written more. It seemed like I was trapped within my mind for days, translating the events of my imagination into words, and putting those words on paper.


I groan in frustration, the temptation to pull my hair out returns once again.


Maybe you weren’t meant to be a writer, a voice whispers in my head. My voice.

“Then why does it feel so right?”

Why does anything feel as it does? Why is eating so enjoyable, if it’s only meant for survival? Why does a fire burn us when we get too close, but tempts us with its flickering warmth?

I shake my head, trying to clear it, trying to break through the wall in my mind that is preventing me from writing. Each time I sit down to write a new story, I always draw a blank.

I look at the words before me. Drink them in. Savor them. In an instant, they’re gone; the simple click of a button erasing those 76 words. Turning away from the once again blank screen, I shut my laptop down, lowering the screen onto the keyboard, making it impossible for me to write any more.

Not that I could have anyway. Not with this writers block.

The End

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