Sat at her desk, she struggles to make a living. Hopes to sell what she herself doesn’t fully believe in… Words. They don’t mean things. Made of syllables that don’t mean things. Goo goos and gaa gaas of a child. Organised gibberish.
Humans question existence under stress,
Innocents question themselves under duress,
Writers question words when trapped under a
that doesn’t move. Immobile.
Insipid thoughts wander into her head at such times. Maybe she should get bitten and become an immortal vampire. Why would a vampire let her live once it tastes her blood? Who doesn’t like to suck on blood? Even insects do, that’s why we swat them away. Neck-deep in melodrama, she thinks she should write till her fingers start to bleed. ‘Try and find a better way to channelize your angst, dear… you can become quite dramatically ruthless’, well-wishers have told her before. A quick search online and she finds a day to block in her diary, Thursday 12th March 2020, 5-7 pm: ‘Creative Writing Workshop on Women’s Fiction’ https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/international-womens-day-writing-your-feminism-tickets-92961060033. Perhaps other fellow wordsmiths might be able to help yank away the block.