The book I'm reading says there's no such thing as writer's block. I beg to fucking differ. I'm sorry. I'm really not the type to swear. I find such words... distasteful. But sometimes vocabulary fails, and I can find no more appropriate words. There's so many espresso shots in me I've stopped counting, and all they've done is make my hand shake as I hold pen to paper. I've started tearing pages out of my notebook, crumpling up the blank, white, blue-lined sheets, just to satisfy my urge to destroy something. There isn't a mirror about, but I'm sure there's a _lovely_ green-purple bruise blooming on my forehead from the copious amount of times I've slammed it into the desk. The brink of tears is nearing by seconds, I can feel it. Also, I'm starting to hiccup. The more I try to write, the harder the warriors of inspiration-lost fight back. It's late, and I'm tired, and freezing, since my dinky little space heater crapped out hours ago. Surrendering, I retreat to bed, and hope the words will come tomorrow. 2008-03-05T23:51:18Z http://ficlets.com/feed/story/23437 <p>I don&#8217;t think this actually qualifies as mature, but I know there&#8217;s probably someone out there who would consider my brief bit of language enough, so there we are.</p> <p>Also, I swear this doesn&#8217;t reflect how hard a time I&#8217;ve been having writing anything when I log onto ficlets.</p> <p>At all.</p> http://ficlets.com/stories/23437?basename=45786 2008-03-05T23:51:18Z The Lady http://ficlets.com/authors/scapegrace