Today I was looking through my old files on my computer and was pleasantly surprised by a completed work (I have a bad habit). It makes me feel sentimental about school, or my current lack thereof.
I stop and hit my head lightly on the keyboard a couple times. A random collection of letters and symbols appear after the final period. I delete them and then the rest of the writing. Better prepared for what? Something gory? Something sad? Something hilarious? How melodramatic was that opening? And why in the world was Harold the first name I picked? The cursor starts to mock me again.
I sigh.
The blinking cursor mocks me as it sits marking the beginning of what is supposed to be a short story.
First person. 3-10 pages. Double spaced. Times New Roman. 12 point font.
The specifics are rolling over and over in my head. My index finger taps lightly up and down on the “j” key. My eyes drift towards my hands, willing them to start thinking for my brain and type their own story.
Hmmm.
There is a faded scribbling of a pen on the back of my left hand reminding me to buy stamps, read the Aristotle essay, email my professor, call my sister, and write a story. I scratch the back of my head then my forehead, then my leg. The wall next to me is white, with an odd brown stain that was there when we moved in. I never thought to wonder where it came from. Maybe I could write about that.
My fingers start moving along the white keys.
“Harold and I didn’t notice the stain when we first moved in. I wish we had. It would have been nice to have known the story so we could have been better prepared.”
 |
| 2 years of writers block- abridged. |
My stomach grumbles.
Food will help.
I get up and walk to the kitchen. I open the fridge and stare into it blankly for nearly three minutes before letting out a frustrated sigh and closing the door. I go to the cupboard and grab a bowl and some cereal. I go to get the milk out of the fridge. We're out. Of course. I grab a pen off the counter and add “buy milk” to the back of my hand. I think about pouring orange juice on the cereal, but then think better of it. I dump the corn flakes back in their box and grab a bag of chips and the carton of juice and head back to the computer. I finish the bag and wipe my hands on my sweatpants.
I glance at the clock. 7:83 PM.
We need a new clock.
I pick up my cell phone. 7:43PM.
I start biting the inside of my lip.
I move the mouse to the bottom of the screen and open the internet. It takes twelve minutes to answer my emails and facebook post. I watch a video Elijah posted about a father telling his son that monsters are real and that he and mommy had a deal with the monster that if he goes to sleep and doesn’t make a peep the monster won’t get him. I laugh out loud, even though it was not that funny. Maybe I could write a children’s story.
“There once was a magical unicorn named Matilda. She had and evil uncle Bruce who was a bear. A black bear. Fact: Bears eat Beets. Bears. Beets. Battlestar Galactica.”
I laugh again to myself, but figure the joke will be lost on most kids, which is a real shame. Besides, Bruce and Matilda? I am really off my game. Maybe I could write a story about people with out names. I could call them “Thing 1” and “Thing 2” and “Thing 3” and so forth. But no, darn Dr. Seuss went and monopolized that market.
My head stats hurting so I get up to get some water. As I sit down I stare at the cup. Water makes me think of the ocean, which makes me think of Shia Le Beouf, because once we watched his TV show while we were at the beach. I begin to wonder if his new movie is out. I pull the internet back up and search for it.
I watch the trailer and three subsequent suggested trailers. I figure while I am online, I’ll check facebook again. Nothing new, but I look through my old teacher’s photo album from her family vacation. I feel slightly like a stalker, but it's entertaining.
Now it is eleven minutes past nine. My eyes are starting to droop and I do not have one word down.
I blow my cheeks full of air so they expanded like a blow fish, then let them out like I got punched in the face.
I realize how ridiculous I must look, and tell myself this, out loud. Then I began to wonder so I pull up the web camera on my computer and take a picture of my bored, brainless self. The shutter clicks and the picture adds itself to the saved shots from last week's eight-page research paper and February's Beowulf debacle.
My mom used to tell me that movement helped you think. I crack my knuckles.
I doesn’t work.
I stretch my legs out.
Nothing.
I stand up.
Nada.
I do a handstand against the wall. The blood rushes to my head. I flip back down.
My brain is blank.
I throw a few punches at the air. I draw a flower on my wrist with a sharpie. I eat some cheese. I dance to an annoying song. I buy the annoying song on iTunes. I try to come up with a good name. Irene. Phillip. Gladys. Cherry. Frank.
I try a yoga pose. I try Aristotle. I try just sitting. I eat some chocolate. I close my eyes
It hits me.
I walk back to the computer still forming the idea in my head. I lick the chocolate off my thumb and stretch all ten fingers before gently placing them on their proper keys. I feel my mouth curve into a smile as my fingers begin to move.
“I sigh...”
by Priscilla Gray
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