Writer’s Block

The little black line keeps winking at me. One. Two. One. Two. It’s annoyingly slow, like I’d expect it to be quicker, more impatient, more demanding. I’d expect it to match my current anxiety. Instead it takes its time. One. Two. One. Two. Calculating. Menacing. What is it even called? I google it. “what is that annoying black line on the word document called?”. “T line in word document called?”. “what is the T line sign at the start of a Word document called?”. “Word document symbols and signs”. I waste 50 minutes like this. I don’t find an answer. 01:24. I go back to that mysterious T line and the empty document. My fingers lay still, barely touching the keyboard. I’m afraid to touch it, if I touch it I’d be admitting my failure. Touching a keyboard and not writing means I’m not doing what I should be. Something’s out of place. Not touching a keyboard simply means I don’t want to write. It’s fine. It’s fine. The black line tells me it’s not fine. 02:30. How is it so late already. I’m tired but I don’t want to move, I swear I feel an idea approaching. It’s there, I feel it. Come on. Don’t be scared. 03:11. The idea is late. Maybe I should change format.

 

FADE IN:

  1. INT. BADLY LIT STUDIO APARTMENT – ESTABLISHING SCENE

 

We see a woman’s back. She is sitting at her laptop, in a completely dark room, except for a weak table lamp and the unnatural blue light of the screen, which weirdly lights up her face more than the actual lamp does.

The camera zooms in, to concentrate on her hands. Her fingertips hover over the keyboard, unmoving, resembling a marble statue.

The pulsating black line on the blank word document mocks her, beating at the same rhythm as her heart, as her useless brain.

The camera zooms in once again, into the back of her head, until the scene….

 

CUTS TO BLACK.

  1. We hear nothing but muffled sounds, something vaguely resembling a lazy heartbeat, or more like some neurons dying, a pulsating brain, electricity sparking through it, keeping it alive, but not doing much else for its functioning. It’s waiting for a new, stronger spark, not the spark that merely keeps it alive, but something more: an idea. It doesn’t come.

FADE TO WHITE

  1. We’re outside again, the camera zooms out to show the woman’s furrowed brow. We hear her thoughts. Maybe she’s whispering them. Maybe she’s lost her mind.

 

WOMAN

Think think think think think for christ’s sake

One idea

One idea

Idea idea idea

The deadline’s in a week fuck

Fuck me

Fuck I forgot to get the pads

When is my period coming?

Who cares write

Write write write

Idea idea idea come on

Fucking useless

Useless fuck

Shit fuck

Write

Come on

How about I change format?

Maybe I should change format.

 

What is a woman without an idea?

Fingers itching to move,

to create.

To voice her being.

Is a man a brain?

Is it a soul?

Is a woman – this woman – the lack of an idea?

She was created to write, it seems.

And yet

Still

Still

Her fingers lay

Still

Lifeless.

She types:

 

The little black line keeps winking at me. One. Two. One. Two. It’s annoyingly slow.

 

 

By Sara Romanin Jacur

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