Writers block

            Edward Stitch scratched his head as he tried to think. He sat impatiently at his typewriter, a cigarette burning between his first and middle fingers on his left hand. Smoke swirled through the air, rising ever upward until it disappeared completely. Ed’s editor was expecting another book sometime that year but Ed was having a tough time coming up with ideas. Ed had short cut black hair and brown eyes, he wore a buttoned up white shirt that was only half buttoned and had a crushed collar.  Since he was at home he wasn’t wearing pants, just boxers.

            Edward stretched out, wondering how much longer he could delay is writing and how much longer this infernal writers block would last. Ed let out a loud sigh and reached for his drink. He drank down his mix of whiskey, soda and half melted ice. Determined to write something he began typing away. He hoped as he wrote, something would come to him. He hoped to get a brilliant idea. He just needed one idea, then he could build on it more and more until he had a book.

            “The toughest part of writing is getting that first sentence” Ed grumbled. He typed on his typewriter for a few minutes. Trying out different ideas and plots. “Sam was a builder by trade…” Edward began to write. “No, that wont do” he muttered, then pulled the paper out of the machine and crumbled it up. “Think, think!” he said, bumping his fist against his forehead. The cigarette he held with that hand sprinkled ash all over his desk. Edward sprang up and wiped the ashes off before anything was burnt. Then he continued to bump his forehead with his fist, but with his other hand, as to not make a mess or burn his house down with stray ashes.

            Ed felt like he had hit a wall and couldn’t get around it. The next step was to plow through it, keep trying things until something works. “Such difficult work requires another drink!” Edward announced and got up from his desk and walked to the kitchen. His bare feet slapped against the tile in his kitchen. The chill in the air that night settled on the tile, making every step through the kitchen make Edward wish he wore socks more often. Or had slippers just to walk through the kitchen with.

            After a few minutes Ed returned to his desk and sat down with a fresh drink. He cracked his knuckles and began to type again. Whether he finished by the deadline or not, it didn’t matter. Writing was his passion, it was his work and his hobby. He loved it and hated it all at the same time. Trying to write when he had no ideas or worrying about editing was like torture but being able to write pages and pages after being struck with a good idea was his ultimate joy. As long as he had his typewriter and a working mind, he would continue to write.