Which write?

Ugly snarl. “I can’t think of anything to write.”

“So write that – until you can.” No emotion. No sympathy No criticism. Even tone. Not a glance. “Repeat over and over and over until you think of something. Brains don’t like being bored. Kick start it.”

Slumped. Exaggerated sighs. Pen flipping and clicking. Glaring around room defensively. But pushing his pen around.
I can’t think of any think to write. I can’t think of anything to write. I can’t think of anything to write. Repeat 
Rapid strokes. Angry pressure to pen. Writing oozing across lines.

“What are you looking at? What are you doing?” Flung across the aisle.

Smug sneer returned. “Writing about you thinking about something to write about.” Dueling glares. Won by averted eyes.

Snort. Slump forward. Hunchback of Notre Dame over the page. I can’t think of anything to write. I can’t think of anything to write. I can’t think of anything to write. And repeat. Endlessly?

Frantic scribbles stretching, battering, tormenting the surface of that page.

March to front. Pitching paper – or attempting to – only, well, it’s hard to hurl a single page as paper tends to flap down more like a leaf.

“Put that on the screen! Critique that!” Defiance. A challenge.

“OK. Let’s give this a look. Here.” Pointing to darkly scrambled letters on the screen. A mangled scribble. A tangle of pen lines darkening the page bottom.

Silence. The author looms tall by the projected page. Arms crossed daring. Threatening.

“A decent into insanity. Words, letters all twisted up. That’s the world falling apart.” Even gaze leveled at author. Is it an insult?

Path to speaker, blocked.

Another voice. “It’s what my bedroom looks like now.” Nervous laughter. Real. Everyone knew. Tragic fire last week.

Slow change of focus and turn to that second speaker.

“No. It’s a fairy tale.”

“What?”  Jerks in disbelief. So not a unicorn kinda guy.

“Yes, there it is. It’s the tangle of briars around Rapunzel’s tower the prince has to fight through,” from the quiet, dreamy, pretty girl they are all afraid to ask out.

“No, man. It’s waking up in the morning after a big night of partying, and looking through messed-up hair.”

Stunned. Bewildered.

“No, it’s cooking instructions. See it’s molasses and spaghetti casserole.”

Spins around taking in the rapid-firing responses.

Another. “Wait, it’s the beginning of a slasher movie. See there’s the vines over the cellar door and the cracked window.”

“It’s a dark and stormy night…..” moans a voice in duet.

OK, point made. Spotlight shuttered.

A+ on the paper, lightly in pencil.

It’s a start. The hard part’s done.

“Finish it. Maybe the “A”, then, in ink.”

A minute of hesitation. Slow smile.The swagger of a conqueror back down the aisle.

Hand and head, this time, full of answers.

The hard part is the starting.

(Related post: “blank pages – not blank brain“)

Guerrilla writing moment,

Phil, the Philosopher Mouse of the Hedge.

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