Nothing To Write About

1000 words (as per built in word counter)

Writer’s block. Very common. Somebody does not know what to write at all. It can be

compared to… I can’t really seem to find a comparison. Maybe you could compare it

to going to the toilet to defecate only to realise you couldn’t- wait that’s not how it

works. It’s instead like trying to start a new physical activity only to not proceed with it

because you could end up in A&E. Except with much lower stakes.

Our focus is Gabor Andrew, a Hungarian-British fellow who lives in London. The

London full of £10 rent tower blocks, gambling shops, and where there is easier

access to the next KFC knockoff than to a hospital. Yep, East London. Which he

never writes about. He writes romance stories set in a London where romance is

key, the only accents are Received Pronunciation and Cockney, and having what

internet idiots call an aesthetic to it, some Victoriancore thing or something - or as I

like to call it, London-without-multiculturalism-core. His newest book “Love Within

Buckingham Palace”, was critically acclaimed. One Twitter user called it

“positive-vibed”, “a romance worth living for” by an American book club, British

papers said it was “an unrealistic tale”, “misogynistic and misandrist”, “a heavily

inaccurate portrayal of London”, with The Guardian putting it bluntly, “not gay

enough”. His critics were less nice.

After the totally not colossal-trainwreck of a book he wrote doing so well (selling only

100 out of 1000 copies printed), he had absolutely no ideas. He already thought his

work was perfect, but he got caught evading bills. Nothing of interest… here, at least.
Then something actually went through his thick skull, thinking it would be a good

idea to set this new book…in Europe. Not Paris, because as of writing, a person who

has never left the US is writing the 943900932nd romance novel taking place in

Paris. He decided to go to another European city that was vaguely romantic and very

cheap: Amsterdam. The home of those weird coffee shops.

30 minutes after doing all those tedious customs matters, he ended up approaching

a few guys outside a… coffee shop. Being raised speaking Hungarian, the language

nobody can understand, and English, he spoke the few German words he knew.

After all, Dutch and German are pretty much the same, right?

“Hallo. There Romantik place von Amsterdam? Need und Storie writzer, en

Super-Big-Novel.” Gabor said, in a voice that sounded like a Belgian drunk on dark

chocolate.

“You know we speak English, right? Nobody uses Dutch here.” proclaimed the first

native.

“Well, pardon me then. I’m trying to find a spot here for inspiration, you see. I write

romantic novels.”

“Well I do know a few.” said the second of them. “Being the capital, they cost a lot.

Why did you even come to Amsterdam for inspiration? You could’ve gone to

Hilversum and met a bunch of soap opera writers.”

“What’s Hilversum?”

“Oh, you’re one of those tourists who know nothing about our country!” exclaimed

the first one. “You could’ve gone to the red lights, they know love alright.”

“No thanks. Give me a normal romantic place.”

“Then go to the Spijker Bar around here.”

“What’s that?”

“A gay bar.”

“Not that!”

“I thought in London, there were more available gay bars than hospitals.”

“Well maybe, but I just want a romantic place to help me write a straight romance.”

“This place does it,” the second Dutch man showed on his phone.

“Alright good, I can make it there.”

He did indeed. This place was an odd one. Being 8pm, there was not much going

on. Sure people kissing, saying euphemisms in Dutch, were abundant, but even with

that intense non-sexual radiation, he could only type the word,“The”.

After his holiday there ended, nothing came to mind. He learnt nothing from

Amsterdam, and he knew nothing to put on paper. £500 wasted, and that was the

money from the preceding novel. How could a man go penning an

Amsterdam-based romance? He remembered the gay bars, the people. He couldn’t

remember a word they said. No words… Yes. As he puts pen to paper, he is able to

write. AFTER THREE LONG YEARS, he can finally write. It’s exhausting, but

exhilarating, and after a few days, he was able to publish the thing. Because people

have no taste.

He called it “Love, Amsterdam”. Joan lives in a windmill in Amsterdam, gay people

central. Worried that she will become infertile, she tries to find a man. But

unfortunately not only are most of the people gay, even the straight people
unfortunately only know Dutch. However, Alistair, who is straight and can speak

English, meets that sweet spot. But after he gets prosecuted for not speaking Dutch

and first-degree murder, but mostly not speaking Dutch, can Joan save the man of

her dreams? She can, and Amsterdam explodes.

When this book got published, it was met with even more praise. “A cottagecore

masterpiece”, “best Dutch novel”, “homophobic”, “raising anti Dutch sentiment”, “an

embarrassment to British literature”, and one reviewer went as far to claim “Gabor

should suffer the fate of Amsterdam”. His critics were less kind.

This event led to the worsening of British-Dutch relations. Due to the problematic

content within the book, publishers tried halting copies of this book by burning it, to

no avail being imported to Dutch waters, as they made 500,000 copies to be sold

there in hopes of a book signing. Because people have no taste. This inability led to

the British prime minister receiving many irate calls from Dutch politicians,

demanding an apology. Over a romance book. Even after an apology, the Dutch

Prime Minister on TV continued to promise “to not interact with those tax-evading

English”. The Netherlands may not seem like the most important country to us, but

even the politicians love their coffee shops, so this was a slap in the face..

Gabor would later be barred from entering EU member states. Only then did

relations smoothen.