Writer's Block

As I sat at my desk, twirling my red pen in my fingers and occasionally coloring in the corners of my tiny Beatles notebook, I came to the unavoidable conclusion that I had absolutely nothing to write. This was the most frustrating conclusion my tired mind could possibly come to. Even a simple rhyme or short story would usually pop into my head when I was stressed for ideas about a long-term story, but there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. It felt as if the endless stream of ideas and creativity that constantly flowed through my mind had simply run dry, and I hated it.

It could possibly be the worst feeling in the world. It didn’t feel like I simply had a bad case of Writer’s Block; instead it felt as if everything I strived to become had reached a complete standstill. How could I ever possibly write professionally if my mind couldn’t generate the simplest of ideas when I needed them? How was I supposed to unwind from the horror that is my life if I couldn’t write? Sure, I could always read, or sleep, or play piano to express myself, but I needed writing to release emotion in its rawest form.

Angry and disappointed in myself, I threw my pen back on my shelf and hid my notebook back under my pillow. I shoved my door open with such force that I almost knocked my dog off of his feet. It broke my heart to listen to him whimper at me, so I picked him up and kissed the top of his head.

“Sorry Eddie.” I muttered into the top of his head.

I would never give a poor dog an odd name like Eddie without a reason. As it happens, that name was inspired by the character Eddie from Rocky Horror Picture show. It was Lizzy’s favorite movie, as well as mine, and there had never been a time where I had spent the day at her house and not watched it with her. It was something we shared, and I treasured it.

I shook my head, trying to knock these memories out of my head before it sent me into another emotional rampage. While this would have been good for my writing, it would not be worth my mother running into the hallway with a look of pure terror on her face asking repeatedly what was wrong, like she had the last time.

I quickly placed Eddie back on the floor and hurried down the hallway, him close at my heels, moving his tiny legs as quickly as possible in order to keep up. While walking through my house, I decided that I could stop in my mom’s office and she what she had to say. The two of us in a room alone usually didn’t go without a fight, and some raw anger was exactly what I needed to spark a story idea. I strode up to my mom’s desk and latched my arms around the back of her chair. She automatically responded in a monotonous tone.

“How’re you doing Chrissie?”

I snorted a humorless laugh. “Pretty shitty madre.” She turned around, a vague look of concern etched across her features.

“Why? Did something happen? Something with you and Lizzy?”

“Why do you always assume I’m talking about Lizzy? I have other friends too.” She simply shot me a knowing smirk and turned back to her work. I sighed outwardly and began again. “It appears that all of my inspiration has dried up. My brain isn’t working right.”

All evidence of concern vanished from my mother’s face. “Is this about your writing? I thought there was something wrong. Chrissie, seeing as how you never bother to let me read your writing anyway, why are you bothering telling me this?”

To say I was shocked would have been an understatement. Out of everybody in my family, my mom had always been the one to stand up for me and my writing. I thought she knew that it was much more than a hobby to me; that I couldn’t just go ‘find something else to do’ as she normally told me when I was bored. Writing was my only outlet. It was the only thing I could do to record everything in my life that I didn’t want anybody else to know; it was an outlet for my pain and sadness, as well as a record of my excitement and accomplishments. It was everything to me, and she didn’t care. Suddenly very angry, I calmly walked out of the room, trying to keep my composure under control and not explode.

I knew that besides writing, the only thing that helped me keep my emotions in check was television. It didn’t help me release my emotions at all, but it was mind-numbing enough to let me forget everything I was feeling, even if only for an hour or two. Knowing that my dad giving me control of the remote was the equivalent of Hell freezing over, I went back in my room and feel in the center of my bed, flat on my stomach, laptop in hand.

I searched online for a while until I found an episode of my favorite show, and began to loose myself in the plot, doing anything I could to escape my current issue. I could feel my anger slowly draining as I immersed myself in the strange characters and twisted plot of my favorite British sci-fi show, happy that her entire family hated it and she would be left alone.

I felt awful, sitting inside watching aliens explode on the most beautiful, sunny day of the year. I wanted more than anything to have somewhere to go; somewhere that would inspire me to no end. If Lizzy hadn’t been in Germany since the beginning of the summer, I would have called her and we could have spent the afternoon in Millennium Park or sitting with our legs in Buckingham Fountain: our two favorite things to do. Sadly, she was still in Germany, and that was not an option. I thought about using my loneliness to prompt a story, but that would have only made me more depressed. What I needed more than anything was something happy or exciting; something that would give me enough pleasant emotion to put pen to paper.

I quickly shut my laptop mid-episode and made my way back into the hall. I then turned directly to my right and knocked on the door in front of me. A few seconds later, the door was opened by a girl about 5 inches shorter than me, with brown hair highlighted bleach-blonde, staring me down with a look of utmost annoyance.

“What the fuck?” I was slightly put off for her blatant anger, but I persisted anyway.

“Let’s do something.” The girl shot me another look, bordering on confusion.

“You never want to do anything. With anyone. Not even your own friends. What happened?” I smiled at her softly.

“I’ve had a change of heart.” Any onlooker could have heard the smirk in my voice with a small hint of pleading. “Besides,” I continued, “you’re my big sissy.” She rolled her eyes at me. “And I’ve got money.” Her eyes locked on my face once again.

“How much?”

“Enough to do something fun. All I need is a ride. C’mon, you haven’t left the house either.” My sister stared at the doorframe, deep in thought, before letting her eyes return to my face.

“Fine.” She stated plainly. “But I’m bringing Molly along with us.”

“Whatever, bring Molly. Bring the whole neighborhood. Bring the dogs. I don’t give a fuck. I just need to go somewhere.”



With our younger neighbor Molly in tow and my sister pulling out of the driveway, I finally had an opportunity to relax and think about actually having fun and interacting with someone other than my dogs Eddie and Katy. I had my tiny notebook and pen tucked under my oversized black hooded jacket, which was completely unnecessary given the current 75 degree air and beating sun, but I didn’t mind. I wore it everywhere, and this was no exception.

“So where are we going?” I asked my sister, bouncing up and down on my seat like a five-year-old child, eager to finally be leaving the house and letting the fresh air and bustling town that lay ahead inspire me. She simply scowled in my direction and kept driving. “C’mon,” I whined, “I’m the one paying, so I get to know.” She sighed heavily.

“We’re not going anywhere if you don’t shut the heck up.” She stated plainly, not daring to swear in front of our 11 year old neighbor in the back seat, blissfully unaware of our conversation as she stared out the window. I glanced at my sister again and her disposition had softened slightly. “You know you sound like a little kid when you do that.” This caused me to stick my tongue out at her and start laughing hysterically along with her. I don’t think it was that funny; we just needed something to laugh about, and this had been the perfect distraction. My spirits were now considerably higher, and as I looked around the car, I was genially happy about spending the day with these people.

We arrived in the downtown area of our large suburban town about ten minutes later, after having small conversations about nothing in particular the entire way there. We stopped in a large and extremely crowded parking garage on the far side of town, and walked until we reached our favorite ice cream parlor directly in the center of the downtown area. The energy was electric as people spent their first day of incredible weather on the busy town streets. The old fashioned buildings were filled to the brim with people. We walked past the beach, admiring all of the bathing-suit clad people were simply walking down the crowded streets in the middle of town, walking into stores and restaurants, draped in towels. This is why I love this town.

I absolutely love spending the day in Chicago when I can, but nothing beats the large suburban towns scattered around it. Despite the immense size of the entire place, everybody was comfortable with everybody. Nobody minded walking from the beach, still clad in bathing suits, up to the library to look at CD’s than to Noodles and Company for lunch. Everybody loved everybody, even if nobody knew anyone. The best way my town can be described is a large town with a small-town feel.

That’s not to say that you couldn’t absolutely go insane in this town. By night, this town had one of the greatest club scenes and underground music scenes in the entire Midwest. But I didn’t care about that right now. I wasn’t thinking about the party my friends were forcing me to go to that night that would carry into the next morning, at a club a mere two blocks away. I wasn’t even thinking about my writing. The only thing I was thinking about was my sister, my neighbor, and the giant cup of cake batter ice cream sitting in front of me, begging to be eaten.

We must have been sitting in the shop for at least an hour, not doing anything but talking. It was the most fun I’d had in a while, and I was eternally grateful for it. By the time we arrived back at home that afternoon, nothing could have brought my mood down. The first thing I did when I walked in the door was go straight into my room, lock the door, and write.

Everything was perfect.