My goal for today was to write three pages. Just three, not a very large order. But after going to the gym and running all the errands I had to take of, I sat in front of a blank page for an hour. I struggled through two paragraphs and it finally hit me, I was blocked. Gasp! The worst enemy of any aspiring writer is the block that looms just beyond the next sentence. I battled fiercely with my opponent for a few rounds then finally succumbed to its power.
I was winded. I had to step away from the keyboard and from the few meager and, dare I say marginal sentences I had written and called a time out. I ate something and took a breather on the couch. Zoned out with the remote control and glared menacingly at the computer taunting me from across the room. My laptop and its aluminum grin sat triumphantly and continuously reminded me of my inadequacy. After awhile I became fed up with the non-verbal insults and I rejoined the fight.
Turns out, all I needed was to regroup. The three pages I had intended to write turned into thirteen. And I love the shit of of them.
Page Count - 68
"The house was quiet save for the echo of a dog barking in the park across the street. Paul, outstretched on the couch, looked around the living room. It hadn’t changed for as long as he could remember; the same oak armoire that housed wedding china and little league trophies loomed in the furthest corner, the matching bookshelf rested in the opposite and the mocha-colored wraparound sofa that Paul had slept on took up the majority of the rest of the room. His mother’s collectibles, the little russian dolls that get smaller and smaller still, filled the shelves that framed the bay window above the couch. The three rings from the coffee Paul and his parents shared remained on the oak coffee table but the mugs were absent, taken away and cleaned by his mother while Paul slept."