You know, sometimes I think there ought to be a ‘Writers Anonymous’. Like the one for drunks, but for writers. I bet you’re wondering why I’m going on about this, well, Hi! My name is Alexis and I’m having a problem writing. Ah, I can see it now;
“And what is your problem, dear?” a 60ish woman would ask me from the front row. Her hair would be white and she’s dressed in a turquoise skirt-suit and has a silk scarf of the same colour draped loosely around her neck. I bet she writes soppy romance crap, I would think.
“I can’t think of any ideas.” I would reply, and embarrassedly glance down at my clasped hands. “At least,” I continue. “Not good one’s and never through to the end.”
“Well, now dear. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We all have some problem or other, or we wouldn’t be here!” She would give a little titter and glance round at the others. And I would stand there, my shame and embarasment burning holes in the ground, and I would think, Yeah, thanks a lot lady.

But, of course, there is no Writers Anonymous, and I’m still stuck with my problem. For possibly the hundreth time today I huff in despair and hit my keyboard in discust. My mug’s empty I notice, so I rise to make more tea.

‘Relax’ they’d said, ‘Quit stressing so much. Just free your mind!’ So I tried, I really did, and what was the net result? A lot of clean laundry, an uber tidy appartment [not a dust mote in sight], one complet cross-stich and a slightly more toned body.
Yeah. It didn’t work. Last time I listen to them. Fuckers.

Okay, so this attitude isn’t really getting me anywhere, so I sit down again to type the plot for my next assignment:

Amanda Schroeder, a single 20-something German-American, woman, receives a mysterious letter. It asks her to meet the author [the ever elusive 'Anon'] in a local graveyard, as they have something they believe she would be interested in. Intrigued and against her better judgement she goes,
She arrives in the dead of night, to find a man waiting for her-

I erase the whole passage. What the hell was I thinking! What’s he going to show her, his dick? Yeah, really clever. Godsdamnit! I put my head in my hands. I’m so close to tears right now it’s not true. Why why why can’t I think of anything decent? How am I supposed to get rid of this mental block? God, I’m so pathetic.

And again, for what feels like the thousandth time, I give myself a mental slap. I won’t get anywhere in this state. I rise to the sound of the kettle boiling, and make tea. The mundane activities of pouring water, adding milk and sugar, and stirring, help bring me back from the edge of despair.

I take my tea out on to the balcony and look out over the world. Wait, that makes me sound rich, like I live in a mansion by the sea or something. Let me re-phrase that. I take my tea out on to the rickety balconette thing and look out over the scummy corner of the world I, and the chavs, call home. Ah! The sweet smell of vomit and aerosol and piss; the heavenly tones of screeching harpies and bad hip-hop; the sultry lines of broken and decaying concrete. I turn back inside. God, what a hell hole.

The computer leers at me as I sit before it once more. I stare at the blank page before me, willing words to come to mind, willing an idea to form itself a plot. Nothing comes. What a fucking surprise. I turn in my chair and flick on the TV, a news channel. Nothing like a good tragedy to get the imagination fired.

By now I expect you’re probably thinking: She shouldn’t be so cynical of those who gave advice. You’re thinking: She is pushing herself to hard. You’re thinking: God, what a whiny brat. Well, you are in my head, so you’ll just have to put up with the whining. But, the other stuff? Yeah, maybe I am pushing myself, and yeah, it probably is good advice, but… this place is a hell hole, and I want out so much. I’ve put myself under enormous pressure, I know, but I hate this place. No, wait… I loathe this place, I despise it’s inhabitants, I abhor everything about it. Now maybe you understand a little better?

Something on the TV has caught my attention. It’s showing a story about a missing little girl. The pictures show a snowy scene; now a graphic of some Eastern European country; the reporter is saying something about a psychic…

I can feel the cogs of my mind casting of the rust of disuse. An idea is starting to blossom like the first daffodil of spring. Brain going full tilt, I turn back to my now cowering machine, and begin to type…

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