The troubled writer will inevitably sit at their computer or their desk and stare at a blank and beckoning paper in front of them. They drown within their own barriers, afraid to mar the paper with their own foolish mistakes and failed plot-lines. The deranged author will hope and pray for me to visit them and whisper a few wise words into their ear; that I will give them just a few pages of inspiration.
They would write a few words, those desperate, pining words, trying to reach me. I dance around their mind tauntingly. I would laugh, holding their pen straight, preventing the connection between the heart and paper, the most vital in a writer's life. Complaints would escape their lips as their eyes closed, becoming frustrated with my antics.
The writer would eventually surrender and retire to bed for the night, accepting their writer's block as they drifted off. Then, and only then, I would crawl onto their bed and whisper sweet inspiration into their ear. They would dash to their beloved paper, grabbing their pen, scribbling only nonsense. With a flick of my wrist, I could take those beautiful, precious words from them, leaving their mind blank.