Not a dam thing to write about - Writer's Block

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
My agent is pushing for new work but my mind is blocked. See what happens when I sit at the computer

Submitted: August 12, 2014

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Submitted: August 12, 2014



Not a dam thing to write about - Writer's Block.


Here I am again sitting looking at the white screen with the cursor blinking in the top left of the screen, and have been for about six hours per day for the last couple of weeks. I keep telling my agent that it will happen soon. She says that if it doesn't I'll be looking for a new agent; she keeps calling me Waldo (really meaning my work, that like Waldo you have to search for it really hard). I replied that if she insists on calling me Waldo she'll be looking for a new job too.

So in order to placate her, my publisher and renew the flow of creative juices I decided to sit here at my desk and ramble to see if I could find some thing to write about. Nothing springs up so I look out the window. The usual scene greets me, houses. What would happen now if an alien craft were to land? Naa... that's been done to death if you pardon the expression. Also the likelihood of them landing here in rural England is about the same as me writing another best seller at the moment.

I look at my cats. Podge the ginger tom is laying on the couch pretending to sleep. I could write in the perspective of Podge's life view. Not much chance of that. He's a big cat at just over six kilos. Plus he rarely does anything, like now, he's got one eye slightly open looking at me looking at him. I thought there was a danger of him moving then, but the only movement was his eye closing again. He'll be there for hours now; same as me I guess. I look over at my other cat, Spot, a female tabby. She sits with me whenever I come to my desk. She sits bolt upright between the speakers and the printer, just out of stroking range, in fact she always follows me everywhere, my own mobile Sphinx. There's no best seller there. Then I question why I have them? What do they do for me except cost money?, Podge opens his eyes and gives me a half glare, must have heard my thoughts, oops.

Then I switch to genres. As a world best seller in historical warfare fiction maybe its time to change. You know, knock those Waldo socks of the agent and earn piles for the publisher. Well first I don't think romance will go down too good. Writing about all the squishy bits, involuntary muscle spasms and writhing on the bed or anywhere else the mood takes them. The books always start the same 'She lay on the pure white sand. She has a body to die for perfect, in every way, sporting a seamless olive tan and is desired by all men and she knew it'. Why couldn't it be a beach ravished by oil pollution? I suppose because the only female there would be in a yellow bio-hazard chemical suite and that's not sexy nor will it sell millions.

The sort back at the beach we all would know, will have a husband with millions in the bank, be fat, bald and very lonely, but has a trophy wife. She as usual will have a lover or four, the tennis coach, personal trainer and a couple she keeps for weekends and bank holidays. she's a gold digger. I think that I'd make it so that the guy would be thirty kilos lighter with as many millions less in the bank. But then she'd not be with him, and he would be the guy perving at her across the hotel pool, with a six pack bought from the local supermarket. See that wouldn't work let alone make me money.

I get up and go to the kitchen, open the fridge and ponder something to eat. The Sphinx follows and now perches on the worktop, still watching. Now what if a giant mouse appeared and eats the cat? I run upstairs call my wife to run. Then return to the kitchen just as the tail of Spot disappears down the mouse's throat. I blast the rodent with a twelve bore I got from the hallway on the way by. Blood and guts every where, I'm now the hero that saved my beloved. But alas knowing my wife she'd tell me to clean up the mess as I'd caused it. Not a best seller there either.

I return to my desk still deflated, drop in to my seat. Still awaiting inspiration I decide that it must be hiding at the bottom of that bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape I started last night. Think I'll go and get that. I switch off my computer, not a dam thing to write about.

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