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A small argument caused a severe setback in my getting over my incredibly writer’s block. I was given a prompt – a private joke between my friend and I, really. So I wrote on the prompt and handed it to her the next morning. Her first comment, by the way, was typical:
“This is single spaced! You expect me to be able to read this? And the size of this type – what is it, ten?”
I assured her it was twelve-point font, and that she wouldn’t go blind trying to read it. Not quite convinced, she shook her head but began to read.
I was eagerly awaiting her critique – hopefully good. After all, this was the first prompt that had gotten me all excited about writing in the past couple of years. It may, I had thought, be an end to my incredible and long-lasting writer’s block. By writing this (and rereading my “horrible” at novel writing), it was possible that I would get inspiration and be able to write again. But as I would see, no! It would never happen.
“What do you think?” I asked her as she looked up at me.
“This isn’t written on the prompt,” she told me. “It’s not you. You wouldn’t do this.”
Already in an irrational mood, I demanded, “What do you mean?”
“It’s good and all,” she said, seemingly in a hurry, “but it’s just not you, you know?”
“That’s why it’s called fiction,” I informed her irritably. “It doesn’t have to be all true and real and stuff.”
She persisted. “No, but it’s really not–”
I turned to her. “Would you shut up about the prompt!” I yelled. “I just want to know what you think over all.” Upset, I left. I would see her again in an hour.
I walked slowly out of one building, heading for the next. I had a meeting out there – I would meet her halfway. I saw her off in the distance, walking so slowly towards me. Finally she was up where I was, her face stone.
I thought she’d been through a bad meeting, which usually accounted for this strange behavior. “Hello,” I said oddly, trying to keep myself under a bit of control. I wasn’t so angry now.
She immediately dropped the look on her face and began dancing around a bit, obviously frustrated. “I hate this! I have such a horrible poker face. My father always told me that, and he was right!”
“What happened?” I asked immediately.
“I’m a horrible person!” she told me. “I feel so bad for disagreeing with you that way!”
“You do?” I was amazed as she reached over and hugged me.
“I just feel so horrible. I didn’t mean to sound like that. I didn’t want to upset you.”
“You’re not a horrible person. Calm down.”
“I can’t!” she replied. “I just feel horrible now.”
I absolutely could not believe this display. It meant I had power over how someone else felt, and that was just absolutely incredible to me – why does she care? So I asked her.
“You’ve never yelled at me before,” she told me. “Not like that, not ever. I didn’t mean to be like that.”
“Now I feel like a horrible person,” I told her, “for upsetting you like this.” She’d told me that she’d had trouble concentrating on her meeting because she’d been thinking of it so much. What she’d said. What I’d said. What we should’ve said.
“Well,” she told me, “I’ve got to go, or I’ll be late. But your story was groovy, really.” Then she turned and walked off, leaving me staring after her.
And, hence, my terrible writer’s block remained staunchly in place! A week later I still could come up with no inspiration or any desire to write (which, when I mentioned it to her, prompted more “I’m such a horrible person,” comments).
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