My mission had been to submit my story by the deadline. I was failing fast.
I had to write something. My head was stuffed with a myriad of ideas, but none of them seemed to work. I sighed as I looked at the pile of screwed up papers overflowing the waste bin.
I reread all the other submissions for what seemed like the tenth time. What did they have that mine lacked? Even my analytic powers seemed to have deserted me.
I tried some displacement activities to look for inspiration elsewhere. My e-mails and You Tube displayed the same as when I had looked before. I came up with no fresh ideas for the story.
The ticking of the mantelpiece clock was getting to me. It sounded like someone hitting nails into the coffin of my writing career. In a fit of rage, I grabbed it and stuffed it inside a cushion case.
I returned to the table and took a deep breath before sitting down.
I sat there with my fingers poised over the key, frozen in time like a petrified forest.
As a diversionary tactic, I made myself another coffee.
I was starting to panic. Correction, I had started to panic over three hours ago. Now I was at the stage of hysteria, what was I to do?
Writer’s block, a brain drain, call it what you will, the bottom line was my submission was a non-entity, a non-starter.
I tipped all the contents out of the bin and began to read through all my previous attempts. That only helped to confirm it had been definitely right to bin them in the first place.
I slouched in my chair, feeling thoroughly demoralised. I held my head in my hands’
“Think, Think,” I told myself, “Don’t let it beat you!”
I was in dire straits, the only option I had left was to phone a friend.
The ringing tone seemed to go on forever before the phone was finally answered.
“Mum, I so glad you’re home, I’m really stuck.”
