And just like that his pen stopped. Was his story finished? Not even close. Those words, sentences and paragraphs which were flowing from him like a fast moving river seconds earlier, had now dried up like a desert. At first, he figured it was momentary, like a train pulling into a station, stopping briefly before resuming its journey. However, as the time went on, that theory was proving not to be the case. Minutes passed and he was left both perplexed and paralyzed, with pen in one hand, head in the other and the notebook staring up at him with its incomplete page.
That blank wanting space after his last word was bugging him and the longer he looked at it, the more it felt like the notebook was mocking his new ailment. He stared at the notebook's thin gray ruled line and was reminded of the many stories the past pages contained. This new revelation gave him the idea to look back at his prior works, hoping to recapture that winning formula he had possessed not too long ago.
Page after page he turned expecting that a small story or a useful note would reignite that creative flame. However, it was all in vain. Now he was staring at the the front of the book. He noticed the many fingerprints that had accumulated on its smooth brown cover. Fingerprints and color aside, the cover itself was without any differentiating design. It was blank, which was now ironic given his current creative writing state.
As the minutes became hours, genuine concern started to build. The once tiny mental whisper of, “What if I can't finish this?” had become more prevalent. With his confidence dwindling and the walls in his house seemingly closing in on him, he decided to grab his notebook and pen and head out to a local nature trail.
Being encircled by the magnificence of mother nature, he located one of the few signs of civilization, a park bench, and took a seat. After taking in some of the sights, he decided he was ready for round two with his bout of writers block. He took out his pen and notebook out of his pocket, opened said book to the incomplete page, and waited. More time pass and again nothing.
Discouraged but not yet defeated, he decided to tackle this problem from a different angle. Up to this point he had been purely focused on this one single story and its completion. Turning the page of his notebook to a completely blank sheet, he figured maybe a new story could shatter this writers block he was suffering with. Of course with this idea arouse another very obvious question.
“What do I write about?”
Initially this was quite a tough question to answer. However, sometimes the hardest questions have the most simplest of answers. He decided that he would write about the thing that was on his mind the most, his current case of writers block.
He started by describing what had occurred hours earlier and then proceed to elaborate about his predicament. As he did, he started to find that the words were returning and were slowly forming sentences. Next would be the sentences, as they would be flowing to form those precious paragraphs. He was on a roll now and that writing blockage was becoming a distant memory.
An hour later that story was done. As he stared down at the notebook, amazed by the transformation that had just taken place, he was struck with the idea he had been waiting for. He turned back to that incomplete page and continued writing like nothing had happened and he had never stopped.