Writer's Block
Author's note: So my first piece uploaded. I'll be glad to hear what people think, although I am aware the plot doesn't go anywhere. Call it an elaborate metaphor. This piece is an example of how I write as much as anything. I'd like to add that I'm free to proofread, critique or write. Feel free to ask.
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"If only I had a way to start this!!!" Zeth shouted in frustration. The blank page loomed before him. He swore it was mocking him.
Zeth was a Silver Fox with a short, lithe build. His scarlet-crimson eyes sparkled with cunning intellect. His messy thick head-fur just added to the 'Mad scientist' look he had going. He wore a grey nightshirt and black boxer shorts with a blanket draped like a cape over his shoulders.
"Damn this writer's block!" He snarled. His bushy tail twitched with irritation.
Here he was a self proclaimed 'writer', and he couldn't even think of an opening. It was eating at him, like a horde of possessed garden gnomes. He tried to calm himself down. He considered getting a drink or something.
"I'll get back to you later." He muttered threateningly at the PC. He swore he heard someone blow a raspberry. He considered torturing his Computer for its insubordination; unfortunately he couldn't find that disk for Mass Effect.
He returned with no ideas and a cup of morning tea it was 2 am which was technically in the morning. It seemed like the instant he had a good idea, it would run away. He tried thinking of a distraction. He probably should check his e-mail. Who knows? He may actually have something.
It turned out he didn't. Unless spam mail constituted as the beginning of a 'beautiful friendship'. If it did then a used car salesman in Norway had taken a shine to him.
Now he was just killing time. "I need to get out more" he thought to himself.
He had made a promise to himself that he wasn't going to write yiff with a bit of back story. At least not all the time. Maybe one every so often.
He really needed something worth showing off for a first piece. Maybe a story about his inability to think of anything! No, that'd be terrible. And a little too ironic. Maybe he should put it in back up ideas.
So, what could he write about? A high school romance? Yeah right, as if he'd ever known what that felt like. Love had skilfully avoided him at every turn so far. So it wasn't like he could write from experience. He could always write about himself but that would be taking his egotism to new heights.
"Screw it." He muttered. "I'm tired."
He may as well sleep. It wasn't like he was going to get any better by staying awake. Unless sleep deprivation had hallucinogenic effects.
He needed rest. Maybe he could write about a dream or something. Not a good idea on reflection. Freud would have a field day on the stuff going that was on in his mind. And Salvador Dali had tried the same tactic, and look what happened there. It was like Alice in Wonderland on LSD.
Not that his nightmares were any better. Like the one with an old teacher of his in the bath...
At least he hoped that was a nightmare.
Zeth turned balefully to a pile of notes. A part of him wanted to burn them. Another part of him wanted to burn a lot more. Zeth gave up. May as well go to plan F. I've exhausted every other option.
A short on writer's block. He mused. An idea so bad it's original.