The chilly night air bites my body like some sort of venomous creature. I do not speak. Only because I feel the undisturbed silence need not any commentary. The moon wades across the starry night sky and I look down at my lap, my notebook lies opened. I look around for some form of inspiration. A sentence. A word. A syllable. My mind goes blank and I cannot think. I dive into the sea of my conscience imagination but nothing is to be found. I struggle to open the door in my mind which will allow my pen to form words. The chilly night air dissipates as my hands and face go numb, as if an anaesthetic had been applied to the nerves under my skin.
I look upwards towards the sky as cold white pearls fall on my face, a snowy night in winter – a window into the cosmos. A magnificent sight for a writer, usually bringing with it inspiration in abundance. I take a deep breath and write something in the notebook. I score it out. My fingers run along the leather back of the book as if to rid them of the numb feeling. I grasp my pen once more and begin writing; my mind focuses on breaking this spell of unwritten dialogue. I finish a sentence before studying it thoroughly, it makes little sense. My mind overlooks this and I continue writing…
An hour has passed since I sat down on this park bench and not one person has passed by, all wildlife seems still and quite. Something catches my eye, a leaf falling from its precarious branch; it parachutes down slowly and lands swiftly on the snow dusted floor. I look back to my notebook, pen touches paper, ink starts forming words and then sentences, a paragraph starts to take place and I start to fill the page. A noise breaks my train of thought and I look sharply up. Thunder strikes the ground and I stare at the spark reaching downwards from the sky. The light enters my vision and hits my retina as the sound crashes against my eardrums. Finally, an inspirational scene. I write furiously as words spill out of my brain and drown my page in a flurry.
I finish page one and look back up at the sky. An endless, infinite pool of stars, galaxies and points of light all releasing radiation and energy, gradually decaying into a dense, cool ball of matter; much like an amateur writer’s career. You invest all your money in something you hope will happen and if it doesn’t, your career will gradually come to a halt and you’ll be left with an empty book and an empty pocket. If your dreams don’t come through you’ll be metaphorically hanged. The novelists’ noose.
My eyes become heavy and I slouch on the park bench, I stare blankly at my booklet and remember my childhood dreams about being in a room with pen in hand, hundreds of pages filled with syllables depicting heroic characters and enthralling tales. My reality – however – is that of an unfulfilled nature; unfulfilled books and dreams. My aspirations lie in a pile in front of me, in a mess, like the snow in front of me. I’ve had the same notebook for over four years and I’ve hardly written a quarter of that. I fight my own mind until some sort of story appears; it’s like trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube that keeps fighting back and I’m winning. I begin to write again and my palms begin to sweat, gradually melting away the snowy blanket covering my hands.
My book begins to fill and slowly a story emerges and fills the pages. This is far from a masterpiece but it’s something. Writing takes time and patience, and I’ve been waiting many years for a break so patience isn’t a problem, the problem is the never-ending writer’s block, staring blankly at my paper as if that will do anything. My work consists of scrap paper, scribbled out words; empty lines all adding up to create an unwritten vortex of entropy.
I look around the white landscape that surrounds me but not for any inspiration this time. I look simply for the sake of looking, the environment that comes with a still winter’s night is magnificent and the silence really adds to the effect. An unbroken sheet of snow lays flat on the ground, layer upon layer covering the pavements and grass in a perfect white desert made up of billions of constituent crystals. Pearls of solid water compacted to make a white sea as far as the eye can see.
My mind has wandered from my priority, to end the night with at least a decent attempt at a book. I close my eyes before cracking my knuckles – my unfortunate habit – allowing the popping noise to free my hands of the stiff feeling. I take a look at the old clock stood high on the tower of the church at the corner of the street; it reads one o’clock in the morning. I have overstayed my welcome yet again and little work has been accomplished, I should get back home. Yet I remain seated.
The chilly night air bites my body like some sort of venomous creature. I do not speak. Only because I feel the undisturbed silence need not any commentary. The moon wades across the starry night sky and I look down at my lap, my notebook lies opened. I look around for some form of inspiration. A sentence. A word. A syllable.