A/N: Day four, another story done. This is going well.

This is dedicated to anyone who’s ever had writer’s block.

Breakdown

I put pen to paper, poised on the brink of completion.

Nothing came out.

XXX

There was the sound of a loud clunk, followed by several smaller dings, succeeded by a loud, painful screech.

“Stop!” shouted the Foreman, as gears began to spark dangerously. People rushed frantically about, pulling levers, flicking switches, and pushing buttons. Slowly the vast, complex machinery ground to a halt.

XXX

The gods were against me it seemed. But they could go…bother somebody else. (As a general rule, it’s never wise to insult a god.) I had a job to do, and I was going to finish it. My pen hovered.

XXX

“How long is this going to take to fix?” the Foreman growled.

“M-maybe a few days,” the worker mumbled nervously.

“Days?!”

XXX

My head thunked against the table, my mind blank.

Three days later, still with no inspiration in sight, I was panicking. My deadline was tomorrow! My editors were going to kill me.

XXX

“The Editors are going to kill me,” the Foreman muttered.

“I’m so sorry boss,” the worker said. “It’s all my fault, and I’ll tell them that if you want…”

“Shut it, kid,” the Foreman growled. “Get back to work.”

The worker slumped and shuffled away.

XXX

I slumped at my desk, staring blankly at the blank paper.

XXX

“What’s the situation, Foreman?”

“Well, sir, we had a slight breakdown in sector Tangent a few days ago. We’ve been working overtime to repair it, and hope to be back online within hours.”

“And what caused this breakdown, Foreman?” another of the Editors asked.

“One of the newbies mixed up some of the ingredients and poured the wrong one in.”

“Hmm,” the head Editor made a note. “And does this worker need to be replaced?”

“No, sir,” the Foreman answered firmly. “He just needs a bit more practice. He’s a hard worker, and dedicated. He’s been working overtime since the mistake in order to correct it.” He hesitated, then added, “In fact I think he shows promise of being a good mixer.”

There was a murmur from the Editors. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Yes, sir. He has a definite creative flair. It makes him a little wifty, but produces some good mixes.”

“Very well, we shall keep that under consideration. You may return to your post Foreman.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sirs.” As the Foreman turned to leave the lights flickered, and the hum of machinery grew louder. The Foreman smiled.

XXX

I felt something flicker in my mind. Was that what I thought it was? An idea! My pen started frantically scratching across the page. Suddenly the entire ending to my story had presented itself to me. It looked like it was going to be an all-nighter.

XXX

The Foreman stepped up to the newbie as the worker poured the last of the mixture into the machine. He slapped the worker on the back and said with a grin, “Good work, kid! You got ‘er up and running again, good as new.”

They looked at the author scribbling away on the monitor, and the Foreman added. “Maybe better than new. Looks like we’ve got a best-seller brewing.” He slapped the newbie on the shoulder again and ignored the kid’s embarrassed blush and sappy grin.

It looked like they would be pulling some more overtime, but the Foreman was used to it. Twenty years working for MUSE had gotten him used to the quirks involved in the creative process, even the occasional breakdown.