Writer's Block

Just write. There is no such thing as writer's block, just laziness.

On the bed, the glowing screen of a MacBook bore this mantra. It sat opened before a young man whose legs were tucked in the lotus position.

Just sit down and type... something will always come.

The single, over-head light fixture illuminated the dingy hotel room. Frustrated, the man ran his long fingers through his thick mop of blond hair. Softly tapping mindlessly on the keys, he tried to organize his thoughts... to no avail. With a huff of anger, he uncrossed his legs and rose from the bed. He stumbled into the insignificant bathroom. Quickly turning on the faucet, he cupping his hands and splashed the icy water over his face. Stepping back, he took a moment to ponder the haggard image in the speckled mirror.

Rather longish and unkempt blond hair framed a tired middle-aged face. The dark circles under his eyes looked larger than he remembered. Sighing, he brushed the back of his knuckles across his stubble-covered chin. His clothing consisted of red plaid boxers, no shirt, and thick white socks. His stomach was chiseled into a near six pack, his ribs sort of poked out at his sides. A slightly concave chest made him appear even more malnourished. A starving artist indeed. Satisfied that he fit the image, he padded from the restroom. With no care taken for gracefulness, he flopped down on the twin-sized mattress.

Rolling over to face his laptop, he stared at the lack of words discontentedly. Maybe they weren't true after-all. So much for the writing class he had taken at the college. He'd never liked the stern professor who had tutored anyway. He was too stoic for a writer.  Plenty of lectures; but no passion.

Gently, he closed the glossy-white computer. Just before it shut, he glanced at the clock in the upper right-hand corner, 9:52 p.m. He moaned at the effort it took to stand again. He'd had no fresh ideas in over a month.

Walking past the cigarette burned armchair in the corner, he stood before the thick burgundy curtains. His hand went to the string that operated the dust-covered drapes. He firmly pulled down the cord to get it past a snag, then opened up a gap in the curtains.

Brick buildings with rusty steel frames and shoddy windows rose into the dark night sky. Trails of smog rose into the air from countless vents and chimneys. A light fog shrouded the feet of the structures. Zigging and zagging in an endless maze, pipes and fire escapes hung precariously from the decaying apartments and hotels. A single star shone brightly in the night. Far away, the wailing of a siren could be heard, the rising and falling of its pitch echoing down an alleyway.

The curtains closed with a thump. Starving artist... hmm, there was an idea. Had he eaten dinner? No. Lunch? Maybe. Food sounded good. He'd always been fond of food. Turning from the window, he reached for a pair of beige corduroys that lay discarded over the back of an ancient television.

Apprehensively, he pulled the brown leather wallet from the back pocket and flipped it open. Just as he'd feared, only some crumpled 'ones', and some receipts. Rifling through the rest of his billfold, he pulled out a few coins and set them on the desk. $6.13 in all. Dinner tonight, free hotel breakfast in the morning. He was covered until lunchtime tomorrow. If he was lucky, there was still some money in his checking account. He stepped into the pants. With a great deal more stress than seemed reasonable, he was able to stuff the wad of money into his right-hand pocket without any of the coins dropping to the floor.

Stooping over, he opened the drawer of the peeling dresser on which television was perched. He snatched a t-shirt from the top of the little stack. It was white, with a baby blue stripe across the chest. Does white go with beige? He half-heartedly considered. No, but blue does. Now mostly dressed, he glanced around the room for his pair of sandals. Can you wear socks with sandals? Sure, why not? Shoving his feet into them and loosely strapping the Velcro, he was off.

Maybe some coffee and a burger would tear down his writer's block. Or maybe I'll just crash, He thought.

End?

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Post Script

This is something I wrote in high school, which I ran at the end of my first book, "Dandelions", an earlier version of "More than Weeds". Basically, I was going to write a whole book on this character, but it never happened... that poor man.

Unfortunately, this does not bode well for the preview which I put at the back of "More than Weeds" either. Maybe I should stop doing that. Hmm.