A writer's way..

It started late one afternoon. It was initially just a numbness, later in the evening it had approached the stages of paralysis and it still persisted. His fingers wouldn't move, his wrists wouldn't co-operate. The drops fell steadily onto the paper, drip....drip....drip... Still, nothing. His hands lay where they were initially. At the top hand left corner. It was confirmed. He had the writer's block!

Thoughts clashed and words scrambled to make a coherent phrase. Still, nothing. Blankness. White, clear paper stared at him. His fingers slowly traced the outlines of the paper. Rip...rip..rip.. The paper was thrown along with the many others already lying in the waste paper basket at the edge of the table.

He should have seen this coming. Every time he sat down with that fountain pen of his, his waste paper basket started filling up. It's like the basket cried out for some waste paper. Really. What was with him and his almost obsessive need to get the exact words for a particular sentence?! Why couldn't he be satisfied with 'almost perfect'?

The publishing house was pushing him to finish the book soon. His books had already garnered enough popularity, that anything below normal standards would be taken off the racks so fast that you might think you were 'seeing' things. But his hand wouldn't MOVE. Try as he might, a clear picture wouldn't emerge. He couldn't visualise anything. He couldn't picture a gun fight like his previous novel, a car chase like his short story, a murder suspect caught in the trap like his T.V series or even a fairy tale ending like his children's books.

He definitely had the block. It was ironic really. The times when he didn't have to write, he came up with the best stories. But now, when all depended on this book, he had NOTHING. Not even a decent foreword. He hoped it wouldn't last. It had been several weeks and yet, he was left with only two words- 'The End'

.......