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Writer's Block

I usually have great ideas to write about especially if I am not under any pressure. Writer's block is horrible. I've had it at times, especially when I am busy or distracted. It's rare that it happens to me. 

What if I finally published a novel? It became popular and fans wanted a sequel. My anxiety would kick in like a huge block of ice, blocking my flow. What if I disappoint my fans? What if I can't repeat my previous success? Doubt will eventually lead to writer's block. Years go by and I still haven't published anything. Everyday I open up my computer and stare at a blank screen. I distract myself by going to Reddit or Twitter and discuss things like feminism in Star Wars and the worst sunburn I've ever had. 

One day I decide that I need to take my writing seriously. I put on some headphones and play white noise to try to clear my head while walking through a city park. The static masks the sounds of life and I am able to sit on a bench and clear my mind. An hour, two and finally three hours go by with me just sitting on a bench in the park. My mind is clear and focused. Suddenly I hear a faint whisper, mumbled voice trying to tell me something. I open my eyes and see nothing. No one is there. I close my eyes again. I hear the voice again.

 "I can help you!" the voice says. I open my eyes and standing before me is a small old woman, her white hair piled on top of her hair. Her clothes looked like gypsy clothes, her voice was deep and soft. "I can make the words flow again."

I didn't care how she came about or where she came from! She answered my deepest desire. I wanted to be able to write, to have never ending ideas.

"Yes, please help me!" I begged. 

She put her hands on my head and chanted a few words. I closed my eyes and listened to the strange language she spoke, a language that I've never heard before. When I opened my eyes, she was gone. I walked quickly home seeing shadows of strange men in the corner of my eyes. Maybe I was dreaming, maybe I was hallucinating from sitting in the sun too long, maybe it was the white noise?

I walked in my home and immediately sat down in front of my computer, the words flowed and never stopped. I wrote for six hours before I finally stopped. I felt sick as I hadn't eaten or gone to the restroom in all of that time. The words would not stop flowing. As I ate I wrote poems on napkins, when I went to the bathroom I grabbed a shampoo bottle, smeared shampoo on the wall and traced in more words.I sat on my couch and wrote letters, poems, copied the telephone book. I finally collapsed and fell asleep. 

The words kept coming. When I woke up I had to run back to my computer and write more. I wrote for 6 more hours. Ate, rested. I couldn't stop writing. I decided to leave my house. I missed writing. I called my best friend and chattered words and ideas. I couldn't stop. My friend hung up the phone. I didn't drive long and desired to go home and write more. I wrote for 5 more hours when I  heard a knock on the door. I answered and it was my best friend. 

She walked into my home with a surprised look on her face. 

"I was worried when you called me," she said, "I had to check up on you. Are you ok?"

I turned around and looked. I had written all over the walls, on my floor, on my hands and feet. What was wrong with me? I fell on the floor and shook. 

I woke up in the hospital, my friend and my parents were by my bedside. 

"You had a seizure." my mother said. I never received a curse. My brain was sick. 

"Did I write anything good?" I asked. 

"It was all nonsense though you did write some nice letters to me and your family." my best friend said, "the novel you wrote was frightening, I think you should erase it."

I later made it home, I went against my friend's advice and read the novel on my computer. Dark shadows began to appear in the room. I opened up my mind to a bad frequency and let the darkness into the world with my novel. I erased it quickly and threw the laptop out of the window. I left that apartment and stayed with my family using my seizures as an excuse. I later moved back with my family as I never wanted to return to the apartment or the park again. 

My family was worried that I suffered from mental illness and told me to get help. I had to always sleep with the radio for I was too afraid of silence. One night the radio station went off the air and I awoke to static. Before I turned off the radio I heard a faint voice whisper, "I can help you!"

Yeah, the story probably sucks, but I am now tired and want to go to sleep. 

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