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The Transformation of a Struggling Writer
By Sheldon S. Higdon
WARNING: What you are about to read is a true account of an aspiring writer who came face to face with the horrors of
writer's block. Viewer discretion is advised.
Not once have I ever dealt with writer's block. I've only heard stories from writers who experienced their own version of it. Take Bella Von Streikner for instance; she once had a case of writer's block so bad it formed a tumor in her left hemisphere-- and killed her. The last word upon the page from her typewriter was "oouuucccchhhhh!" Or what about Joseph P. Kolchek, whose writer's block was nothing more than him muttering in a childlike manner, "I'm only tree and a half years old." He's now been committed to The Logan/Ottoman County Organization or El Loco, for three and half years-- how ironic. Apparently, he's making strides. He's now muttering, "Are you my mommy?" A sad state of affairs for a man who once could burn through twenty pages a night on his computer.
Writer's block happens to people in different ways, and as I discovered, it can be horrifying.
It happened when night was at its darkest before sunrise. I found myself staring at the cursor on my screen.
Blink... blink... blink. The flashing rhythm lulled me into some sort of trance, and as I became drowsy, my face became warm and my eyes got sore. The smell of burnt hair filled my nose and I felt my brain begin to sizzle within my skull. I tried to pull away but it was too late. The computer screen's radiation waves took hold and infected me with the inability to think straight or jot down a line of dialogue. Writer's block nestled in deep and began working.
My motor skills became sluggish but my brain, even though it was wasting away slowly, was still aware of what was happening. When I spoke, the only word that rolled from my tongue was "Brrrraaaiiinnnsss!" And soon after, my body became stiff as though
rigor mortis set in. My mind faded into darkness as my mouth began to drool with its eager tastebuds. After what seemed an eternity, I was now completely transformed. Writer's block gripped me tight and led me into a complete unimaginative sleepwalk.
For a better word, writer's block turned me into a zombie.
Without self-control I got up from my desk and stumbled toward my bedroom where my fiancée was sleeping. My mouth became wetter with every step and again I mumbled, "Brrrraaaiiinnnsss!"
As I passed the hall mirror, my eyes caught my reflection. The moonlight crawled across the wall highlighting my taut face, which appeared pale blue. As I gazed at myself, my fiancée entered the hall and flipped on the hall light.
Did she scream at my appearance? No! She told me to quit being stupid and come to bed, but my only response was "Brrrraaaiiinnnsss!" and I started walking toward her. She made clear that she had worked her butt off all day and that she wasn't in the mood to horse around. She also warned that if I touched her, there'd be hell to pay.
Now only if I could've listened.
But I still plodded forward. I stretched my arms outward and grasped her neck, but before I knew it, her knee met my lower extremities. The clock struck twelve, so to speak. Without hesitation, she turned and went back to bed leaving me there on the floor holding myself and gurgling in pain. After some time I finally awoke. It felt like a long time but I
passed out for only a few minutes. I lifted myself up from my fetal position and limped back toward my office. Again, I stopped at the mirror where my face, covered in all its tears, was now back to normal. Who knew that a knee to the groin would be a savior to the no holds barred grip of writer's block?
After an hour of recuperating I was once again typing away. Except, now when I come to a halt in my creative process and I catch myself being rocked back and forth by the cursor, I simply turn off the computer and make myself a sandwich.
Of course, my mouth still drools for something else.
I bleed "horror" and when I cut myself it takes the shape of short stories
and screenplays. I spend my limited free time with my shrink at the Keystone State Hospital where I'm learning to differentiate "real people" from the ones that inhabit my head. Whether you're "real" or not, feel free to contact me at
www.myspace.com/sheldonhigdon.
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