Writers Block

By Alice Thorpe

The writer stands at the window, and sees the world in a new light. There is something
working inside him. Something stirring: an embryonic promise of success. Listen, he tells
himself, as fresh, new words whirl around his head, I am bold, I am lyrical, I am different.
So he takes up his pen and writes. He expends his thoughts onto the page- it is the only
word for it: Rest assured, dear reader, he chuckles to himself, that here you are
witnessing conception.

Oh! The irony! Because nothing will come of it- no matter how hard I try. Those eighty-nine
words are all I have written since yesterday. Yet again my narrative voice has been struck
dumb, and I am at the point of giving up. Nothing will come of that last paragraph just as
nothing came of all the other failures before it: that novellawhich was only a novella
because the novelist in me ran out of steamfor example, or that one glorious book which
died a death so immediate that it had practically never been born. I am doomed to
miscarriage- my creative legacyor lack of sucha litany of still-born life. (Hows that for a
sophisticated extended metaphor, Mary?)
And yet, is it not better to say I tried, and sigh, and then draw oneself up to ones
full height and say fervently in a voice trembling with emotion: And frankly, my dear, I
dont give a damn!? I shall continue as before, tap-tap-tapping away in perfect
contentment. Who cares if nobody else reads it? There is no-one on Earth Id rather please
than myself.

Darling, what is this pretentious drivel? My God, you get worse by the day!
I was away for all of three and a half minutes, and yet I knew she would somehow still
manage to add her little piece of helpful encouragement to my heartfelt scribblings. The
cheek of it! What does she know about the self-illuminating power of art? That was an
honest-to-God, cuts-right-down-to-the-bone confession and the best she can come up with
is pretentious drivel! I thought it was rather postmodern actually. I thought maybe it
might have been going somewhere.
Shes right of course. It is drivel. And writing to please ones self is all very well
ideologically speaking, but it can hardly be said to be particularly lucrative. (Unless you want
to go down the Mills & Boon route- God forbid!) Like all failed writers, I live in the vain hope
that one day what I write will please someone other than me for a change. But itll never
happen. Writing needs to be targeted like anything else that needs selling, and Im no
salesman. Any successful writer who tells you that they write for their own pleasure is lying-
or theyre not a successful writer. (In which case, theyre lying anyway, you neednt say it
twice!)
This from Mary. Mary has never heard of sweet nothings. The hot caress of her
breath against my ear is only ever the repulsive precursor to some cutting (or so she thinks)
remark. She crept in unannounced as usual. She insinuates herself into my workspace and
contaminates the place like some deadly gas released under the door frame. Carbon
monoxide, the silent killer- thats my Mary. I should have somewhere of my own to write in.
Somewhere away from the house, with a lock on the door. I cant work when shes around.
She knows this, of course, and so takes every opportunity to interrupt me. This time it was
ostensibly to bring me a cup of something- I cant tell whether its meant to be tea or coffee.
Rank, tasteless stuff. She may as well have poured the whole poisonous contents into my
ear and had done with it.

Over-the-shoulder shot of Mary in the shadows. Door slams as we cut to a wide shot of the
room. Silence. Gradual fade out. (Ive tried my hand at writing screenplays in the past too.
No success there either.)

Its no good. I may as well carry on with this autobiographical tangent while Im still
struggling to find the inspiration for anything which approaches proper writing. It could be a
long time coming.
I suppose this is the point at which I say that it wasnt always like this. I dont know
exactly when Mary turned against me. I wont presume to say that I know exactly why she
did either, but Im not too proud to point out that it probably had something to do with one
of my multitude of failures. There was a time when she could cope with my absolute,
stubborn inability to have any sort of success. She pitied me for it, in fact. There were
Never mind dears and Itll happen one days accompanied by an endless provision of
lovingly made (and distinctly flavoured) cups of tea and coffee. And as I tap-tap-tapped
away she would call out to me to read aloud what Id written, and then put her head round
the door with suggestions. We worked well together. But not well enough it seems.
Because there was always some little thing which didnt work, and messed up
whatever we were trying to create. And yes, in a manner of speaking, that was me.

Wide shot of a doctors surgery across the street. Door opens and a man steps out,
followed by his wife. They stop side-by-side on the step, not touching. Cut to two-shot: door
swings shut behind them. They are not looking at each other.

Wife (bitterly): Well, thats it then.

Man (apologetically): There are other ways

Cut to medium close-up of the two of them in profile. The mans voice trails off as his wife
turns and walks away

Okay, so maybe I lied. Maybe I do know exactly when Mary turned against me- and why.
Yes, my hope of literary success dwindled and Marys optimism was gradually worn down
with it, but that wasnt how I lost her. In the end it wasnt about the writing at all.
Or, at least, it shouldnt have been. But I couldnt help but note that thatthat day
when Mary turned away from me and the bitterness beganthat was what truly put paid to
the possibility of me ever writing anything worthwhile. The two problems are linked,
theres no denying it. Her resentment was a form of sabotage- revenge designed to ensure
that from that moment on, all creativity would be issueless. If it couldnt work for her, then
it wouldnt work for me.

Talk of the devil Madam Carbon Monoxide has just paid me another visit. As soon as I
realised she was in the room I made a clumsy attempt to cover up my writing. It was
pathetic: teenage boy fumbling with a dirty magazine. And why? Well, if Im honestand
admittedly I havent been up till nowIm ashamed. This conspiracy theory of mine: all this
talk of revenge and sabotage, it may be poetic but it isnt the truth. A handy metaphorical
motif, yes, but theres no getting away from the fact that its simply my literary way of
passing the buck. It seems that Im too much of a coward to acknowledge my own failings.
But Mary should not be blamed for hating me. God knows, I would if I were her. Does she
lay awake at night and wonder what sort of life she would have had if she had never met
me? Where did eighteen year-old Mary think shed be in nineteen years time? At the age
of thirty-seven Its clichd, but its true: she thought shed be riding through Paris in a
sports car with the warm wind in her hair. And where is she? Stuck in white suburban
Basingstoke in a sterile marriage, lumbered with a husband who can barely provide for her
present existence, let alone offer her any hope of future happiness.
And yet, she stays. Thats what I cant get my head around. Why? Is it out of a sense
of duty? Surely not: this, after all, is the same Mary who, after we were married, refused to
let me carry her over the threshold of our new home unless she was allowed to do the same
to me. A fine show that was for the neighbours- she got the giggles and dropped me. As I
said, it wasnt always like this. There was happiness. There were bike rides and picnics and
flowers in spring. So maybe, just maybe Is it (dare I say it?) out of love?

God, when did I get so sentimental? This looking over our shoulders through rose-tinted
spectacles is all very endearing, but let me assure that its merely a fictional formula
supposed to add a touch of the bitter-sweet to my ramblings (which, I might add, are
coming dangerously close to wallowing in self-pity.) In fact, who am I kidding? Theyre
drowning in it. Failed narrative: the story of my life. (Now, that truly is pretentious drivel.
Oh, if Mary were peering over my shoulder now!)
And yet, maybe there is some sad truth in it. The irony is that Mary and I are not so
different. Why does she stay with me? Why do I keep struggling to write? And all in spite of
the fact that I remain impotent. The simple answer is: were stubborn. We cling to life like
everyone else. We simply carry on, refusing to believe that out of all this human dramaall
the emotion and memory and laughter and disappointment which bind us togetherthere
is no story waiting to be born.

Fade in from black. Wife sits alone at a dusty, old desk. Medium close-up from front- she
holds a yellowing piece of paper in her hand. On-screen caption: 26 years later After
some time, she slowly picks up a pen and writes something at the bottom of the page.

Close-up, over-the-shoulder view of page focuses upon a single sentence:

The best thing he ever wrote.