A writer's block

““And with a smile, he lit the piece of paper and watched it burn.” Ian dropped the pen and threw himself into the couch. Another month, another run-of-the-mill novel ready. Life isn’t easy as a best-selling author. The first successful book you publish, you become a sell out, and are forbidden to have original ideas, push forward the literary boundaries or write about what you want, for that matter. Welcome to the machine, indeed. Rising up, he went to his desk and rummaged through his manuscripts, his unpublished manuscripts. “Red Sea, Black Blood”, “A Murder of Crows”, “The Grim Journals”. The words he once thought would change the world. Ian had been considering putting a sign on his neck, probably something like “literary hooker, will write for 10% royalties”. He cast back these thoughts. No use, he thought. When you’re in your fifties nobody expects you to be original. You’re old. You’re expected to switch your inspiration to auto-pilot and regurgitate every theme you’ve written about. He had written about the great seas, the moving complexity of the universe, and all that everyone wanted to hear from him was sex. How could he have guessed writing a porn novel would restrict his creativity for the rest of his life? How could it have happened? Lost in this kind of self-pitying thoughts, he suddenly noticed the doorbell had been ringing for quite some time. Ian reached the door, and when he opened it, a cloaked figure, remarkably similar to the so-called Grim Reaper, walked in. “How may I help you, sir?” Ian asked. “I have come to warn you that you have but one day to live. In this crumpling piece of parchment you will find all the gruesome details of your horrible death-to-come, including the exact time and causes. Have a nice last day.” Saying this, he seemed to evaporate, leaving a trail of dust on the mat. Ian was stunned for a moment, and…”

Susan stopped writing. She reckoned her writer’s block was worse than she had expected. Death warning you beforehand was such a laughable concept… She had no other choice but to start anew, again. She lit a cigarette and, with a sad grin, she also lit the piece of paper and watched it burn.