found this story i wrote when i was about twelve, thought i'd throw it up here and see what you lovely people think...


THE WRITER’S FATE

The writer sat at his writing desk. His head was crowned by a ring of snowy-white hair just above his ears, but the remainder of his scalp was bared to the elements, and scorched pink. He was clad in a ragged brown cardigan, worn threadbare at the elbows and made of nubbly wool. His eyes were small and blue, almost hidden in the creases and folds of his skin. He had a button nose, upon which a pair of half-moon spectacles were perched. His mouth was full of pearly-white teeth that flashed when he grinned.
A stack of gleaming white pages lay before him on the desk, and by his hand lay his fountain pen, the tool of his trade. Running his hands through his white hair, and perching his spectacles on the bridge of his nose, the writer picked up his pen and balanced it in his hand. Settling himself comfortably in his big leather-backed chair, he scratched the tip of his nose with the end of his pen and blinked.
The pages were before him, clean, crisp and immaculately white against the mahogany darkness of the table. The pen was in his hand, light and cool against his skin, the navy blue of the body contrasting sharply with the gold nib. The writer frowned, wrinkling up his pink forehead in disdain. Something was missing. What?
He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. He had been sitting at the desk for ten minutes now, the gold hands told him. He looked out the window. The sun was shining brightly, the birds were singing sweetly in the trees and the sky was cornflower-blue. Setting his pen to the first page, the writer waited for the stream of unwritten words to flow from his brain to the nib of the pen and the on to the pages, in a stream of inky-blue swirls. Nothing happened.
Standing up, the writer left the room and returned a few minutes later carrying a cup of steaming coffee. The wisps and curls of steam condensed on his glasses and made it difficult to see. Setting the cup down on the table, the writer re-seated himself and faced the pages once more. Their smooth untouched surfaces made him quail, the thought of blemishing them with ink made him shudder. He sat back and drew several deep breaths. Concentrating hard, he tried to dredge up any former blazing brilliant flashes of inspiration. Nothing. He drew a complete blank.
Sitting back against the back of his chair, the writer frowned and rubbed his eyes. Was there something missing ? He checked the desk. Pages, pens, lamp, cup of coffee, this morning’s assortment of letters and bills. Nothing appeared to be out of place. He looked out the window. The birds were still singing in the trees, the sky was still blue, the sun was still shining. It was a beautiful day and everything was right in the world. So why did the writer feel that he was lurking under the oppressive shade of some large and depressing thundercloud?
Sighing, the writer stood up once more and strode around the room. Maybe if he stretched his legs it might help clear his mind. He made a full circuit of the room he knew so well. It was a small room, furnished in dark wood. The walls were lined with bookcases, all chock-full of books. The books ranged from well-thumbed paperbacks he had bought preceding long train-journeys, to large expensive leather-bound volumes he planned to pass onto younger generations of his family. The furniture was composed mainly of overstuffed leather armchairs and a coffee-table covered in little ornaments.
The writer liked his ‘writing-room’. It was small enough to feel cosy, but big enough to work in. The writer had spent many years in this room, sometimes shivering with cold in winter, and sometimes sweltering with heat in high summer. He had written all of his best works in this room, and all of his worst works as well. His waste-paper basket had overflowed countless times with dead-end material, and there were plenty of ink-stains on the rusty-red carpet where his numerous bottles of ink had spilled.
Suddenly, with a shudder of pure horror, the awful truth reared its ugly head and glared malevolently at him. The writer flinched back from its baleful eyes and fiery breath. The demon of all demons had taken on a shape, and that shape was a stack of pure white paper. The heralds of the writer’s doom were blowing their trumpets with awesome vigour. The monster had finally come. The protective walls that the writer had drawn about himself every time he picked up a pen were ripped apart unmercifully. His hour was come. Alone and utterly helpless, he faced the dreadful monster ... Writer’s Block.

Nice story. If thats what you were doing a few years ago it would be interesting to see what you do now if you still write.

I'm impressed

mainly what i do now is suffer from writer's block...there's two stories i'm working on at the moment, neither of which are going ANYWHERE but down the toilet... i hope to have a book published sometime before i die...that'd be nice...fulfilling a childhood dream like...*crosses fingers*

Good luck with the writers block skunk, if I can be of any help, let me know