Writers Block

She sat at her window, notebook in hand. She wanted to write, no, she needed to write. Her hand shook in anticipation of the words it would form. Her ears perked in hope of hearing the soft scratch of graphite on the clean white paper. There was only one problem; she had writer's block. She tried everything she could think of to dislodge it, drabbles, free writing, walking away, but nothing worked. She knew what she wanted to write about. She wanted to write about what she liked and what she didn't like, her hopes and dreams, what she knew, and what she didn't know, what she wanted to know, and what she didn't want to know, thought she knew, thought she wanted to know and didn't. Yet when she put pencil to paper, nothing. Her mind went blank.

She always preferred pencil to pen. That's because she doesn't use pens to write. Pens are too permanent. Stories aren't meant to be permanent. they're meant to grow and change, just like the characters in them. If they didn't change they wouldn't be stories, they'd be fictional facts. With pencil, she could mold the story how she saw fit. She could feel the words as they flowed from her mind to her hand. Writing was her escape from the world. Where she could say what she wanted without worrying of consequences. It was her lifeline. When she couldn't say it she would write it. She could be who she wanted. A princess in some far off land, a warrior in battle, a peasant on the streets, a singer on Broadway. She could take revenge on enemies. Turn them into whomever she pleased, mocked them to fit her fancy. And here she sat, in the middle of the night, with pencil and paper and no idea what to say. The with a smile on her face, she placed the sharp graphite tip on the paper and began to write. She wrote what she knew at that point: Her writer's block.