This is just a quick one shot that I wrote while dealing with my own type of writer's block. (and since teennick and all of my other great channels were taken away from me last night. Arg.)
Writer's block. Every writer's worst nightmare falling upon them, when they're right in the middle of working on their greatest project. Many authors find themselves re-reading some of their favourite pieces or going on long midafternoon walks for motivation, and they're back to writing in no time. But whenever this curse consumes Elijah Goldsworthy, he can't seem to shake it no matter what he does.
Eli's beautiful wife Clare always appeared to give him the inspiration he needed to write, except for just recently. After being put on a higher dosage of medication, he couldn't concentrate on a single thing. Being a best seller novelist, he always needed to be on top of his game so he could make his yearly deadline for a new unique novel that was guaranteed to sell.
He rubbed his fatigued eye, pondering for a new idea which would be good enough to sell. Perhaps he could write about a serial killer observing a young heroine and her friends from afar; bumping them off one by one until only the protagonist were left to face the murderer? He shook his head and violently scratched off the idea from his brainstorming page. Not good enough. Nothing he comes up with is fucking good enough. This was why he hasn't had an astonishing, top of the charts book since high school. He simply wasn't a strong enough storywriter.
Forcefully, he propelled back his desk chair and let it fall to the floor with a loud crash. He was so sick and tired of this creativity block he'd been dealing with for the last few years. Eli would do anything to get over this; he would even kill a living, breathing human being. He grabbed his fully finished copy of Stalker/Angel off of his bookshelf and looked at the cover, his face full of disgust.
His strong fingers gripped the paperback cover and he found himself cracking the spine sadistically. As he observed the "best seller" sticker on the front cover, he wondered to himself how anyone could possibly want to read his work when he couldn't even tolerate his own writing a majority of the time.
Eli spent weeks working on this dreadful novel, not bothering to sleep a single wink; of course that was back when he was naïve enough to believe he had some talent within him.
With a deep sigh, he heaved the book forward to let it thud against the wall noisily.
He was so fed up with everything that he was beginning to consider giving up all of his dreams of being as good as his favourite authors. He was already trying so hard to make his writing perfect and nothing was working out for him the way he'd originally planned. He refused to be one of those authors who lucked out by having one good book, and failed at every other project to follow. It was best for him to stop while he was ahead, right?
Eli reached for his bottle of pills at the side of his bed and returned back to his writing desk where he fixed his desk chair. Most of the greatest writers suffered from disorders, but Eli didn't feel too "great" at the moment.
He retrieved the wastebasket from under the desk and dumped the entire bottle of pills atop the crumpled and balled-up papers of disastrous, unsuccessful ideas.
An hour passed without Eli moving a single inch, but he was already starting to feel a change in him after skipping a pill or two. He picked up his pen and pressed it down on the top of the paper; his fingers scribbled down idea after idea.
Eli grinned wickedly and continued to spout out every idea he could possibly come up with. After he was completely finished, he'd filled out ten pages of brainstorms.
Bad Eli! Take your pills or you'll crash another hearse into a wall. ._.