Writers Block

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-rightdown-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 routeGod 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 began
that 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 drama
all the emotion and memory and laughter and disappointment which bind
us togetherthere is no story waiting to be born.