The Curse of My Writer's Block

My grades are usually good. I maintain A's throughout the year and have yet to take a final exam. The last part is about to be thrown down the toilet.

I did everything. I only forgot my stuff one time and I always had my homework. I got all A's on my tests, except for one. This one I failed because I had been up until midnight studying for a different test and had completely forgotten about my English test. My English teacher, Mrs. N, told me I had a 93.4. A single tenth of a point away from taking the final exam! However, she did give the whole class an extra credit opportunity. One of the things we could do was write a story. I was so excited. I could write and write for days on end. There was, however, an unforeseen issue. I had a curse called writer's block.

For the first two weeks, the story was due on the Thursday of the third week, I thought and thought until my brain physically hurt. I still could not come up with anything. I would think of words and try to build a story around it. I would think of dreams I had and try to build a story. I went back to my idea page and I tried to build one of those ideas. I tried everything! All I got was a pile of paper in the trash can.

So I started asking around.

My first attempt was while at school on Tuesday. It was my first class of the day which was, ironically, English. My friends and I were talking and one of them, Sierra, did not appear to be doing anything. She was a dancer so I thought maybe she would have a good, creative idea.

"Hey, Sierra!" She looked at me.

"What?" She asked.

"I was hoping you could help me with something." She brightened a little.

"Sure! What is it?"

"Well," I started, "the thing is I'm having trouble of thinking up an idea for a story I wanted to write. But I can't even think of a good story." She thought for a minute.

"I got it! What if…" Her story goes something like this:

There was a girl who lived in a house. One day, she left the house in search of adventure. She walked and walked. However, the further she walked the less content she was. She realized she was missing something. She had left her home behind her and could not continue. She went home. And they all lived happily, ever after.

"So what do you think?" Sierra asked me. I sighed.

"It's a good story but it's been done before. Maybe it'll work. I'll see if I can do something with it though." I said that, but I knew I would not get anything from that idea. Perhaps someone else would have an idea.

My next class was Algebra 2. It was an easy lesson that day and we all finished ahead of time. I was talking to one of the girls, Tory, and I decided to ask her of an idea for a story.

"Oh my gosh, I know exactly what you should write about." Her story went more like this:

One day a girl named Tory was sitting at her desk, dreaming of when she would become a princess. She would marry the prince, most preferably the Prince of England. At this time the prince was Prince Harvey, her one true love.

Tory was at the mall one day when she saw him. She actually saw him. It was her prince! She ran towards him, stopped in front of him, and cried "I love you" for everyone to hear. He swept her off her feet and took her back with him to England. They lived happily, ever after as well.

"Yah…" I said. "I think I've heard that one from you before." She shrugged and, as the bell rang, skipped merrily off to her next class. It was beginning to get disappointing.

I forgot to ask anyone else until my fourth class. It was my World Religion class. After failing with two girls, I decided to get a new perspective. Maybe a male could come up with something. I spotted my friend Ricky.

"Hey, Ricky I need to talk to you." He turned and looked at me.

"What's up?" He asked.

"Look, I really need some help. I can't think of what to write for extra credit in Mrs. N's class."

"Ooh," he gasped, "You? Can't think of something to write? Ooh," he gasped again. I hit him.

"Hey! This is important. I need help and it's due on Thursday!" Ricky laughed.

"You have like an A anyways." I sighed.

"It's a stinking ninety-three point four. It's right below the cut off to take the exam which I really don't want to take! Please?" He thought for a minute. "Okay, okay, I got it…" His story went something like this:

So there is this guy. His name is Bob. Bob found out that he was a superhero. He had the amazing power of flying.

He was out doing his super, cool, awesome flying thing one day when he saw this really cute puppy. He also saw this random person about to jump off a bridge. Right as the person was about to fall, he decided he wanted to pet the puppy. So he went after the puppy.

"Really?" I asked.

"Is it not the most awesome story you've ever heard?" He exclaimed.

"No, no offense, but it kind of sucked."

He shrugged, "You asked."

That night I went to a family member. My dad was the most creative person in our house besides myself. On this particular occasion he was hopefully going to prove to be more creative. He was sure to give me a good idea.

"Hey, dad, do you have any good story ideas roaming around in that awesome mind of yours that need a writer to put them on paper?"

He thought for a minute. "What's it for?"

"Extra credit in English." I stated simply.

"Well, what about writing a story about not being able to come up with an idea?"

"Seriously? That's all you could come up with." He nodded.

"Yah, it's a great idea." I shook my head.

"That's one of the stupidest ideas I've ever heard." I was crushed. I had been so sure my dad would give me something.

Faith in my father having been shattered, I headed downstairs where my grandparents lived. My grandma was getting ready to bake something.

"What do you want Sweetie Pie?" She asked me.

"Well, you read a lot of books. Do you have any ideas of a story I could write?" She thought about it.

"I'll help you if you help me bake my cookies."

"Mamaw, I don't have time to help you bake cookies."

"Nonsense," she said as she waved my objection down. "Everyone has time to bake cookies."

So I helped her bake cookies.

When the cookies were in the oven she gave me a tablespoon of cookie dough. "Now, let's see, you wanted an idea…" Her story went like this:

There once was a young girl. She married what most people said was beneath her even though she had another suitor. One who was filthy rich.

The man who was denied was furious, and one night he snuck into her house. Going to the bed he took a knife and stabbed her ten times. When her husband tried to defend her, the man stabbed him too.

Strangely, the police were quite baffled as to what happened. The only suspect was found hanged in his bedroom.

"Grandma!" I cried. "That's awful."

"But it's a great story!" She exclaimed.

"I can't write that!" I said and ran up the stairs leaving the cookie dough. I should have known better than to get an idea from the lover of murder mysteries.

The next morning, I was ready for school early. I was back downstairs where my grandpa was watching a Western.

"Hey, do you have any story ideas?" My grandpa sighed.

"Did you not start two weeks ago?"

"I did! I couldn't think of anything." I tried to explain.

"Well, when I was a boy…" I guess this counts as his story:

I would walk to school everyday, uphill both ways. It was four miles and I had to leave home forty-five minutes before it started. I would have to get up early to help around the farm before school.

You have no idea how much snow we got. Why, when I was only eight the snow came up to my chest! Now it only comes up to just above my knees. You are so lucky you do not have to walk, and to think, you cannot even come up with a story idea.

"Well, I got to go, papaw." I said and left as soon as possible.

The day at school produced no results. The only person I even asked was my friend Miguel because he kept asking me what was wrong.

"So that's why I need a story idea!" I explained. He stared at me for a few minutes.

"There's nothing in your smart person brain?" He asked.

"No, there's not and if you don't have a good idea, please let me keep trying to think of one."

"Well, I do happen to have a good idea." He said.

"Really?" I asked hopefully.

"Yah, it's great." All I'm saying about his is that it was about Asian squirrels and Dotty from Barry Hotter and the Sickly Wallows.

I was running slowly in cross country that day because I kept trying to think of an idea. After practice, I started talking to one of my friends who actually goes to my church. His brother, we call him Thumb, picked him up.

"Hey, what's up?" He asked me.

"Well, actually," I started explaining the whole thing to him. "Do you have any ideas?"

He laughed. "I don't read. I watch the movies." I rolled my eyes.

"Then do you have any movie ideas I can write down?" He paused.

"Yah, actually I do." His idea was something like this:

An epic battle scene, involving Dill Smith, Huck Torris, and Liom Neckson was taking place. It was filled with action and dramatically viewed. The fight consisted of machine guns, fist fights, bow and arrows, and, randomly, light sabers. The scene continued and there were heroes and cowards on all sides. No one knew what would happen. They all died.

"Everyone dies? What fun is that?" He shrugged.

"It would make an epic movie." I sighed.

"I'll remember that next time I do a screenplay." He smiled.

"Cool," he said and drove off.

I went to church that night simply because I did not know what else to do. The prayer leader for our ministry was there.

"Mrs. Diedra!" I called. She asked me what was wrong.

"I need some help." I explained everything to her.

"Well, you're very creative, I'm sure you'll come up with something if you pray about it." I stood there for a minute. What did she think I had been doing? I had been praying for two weeks for creativity and, so far, nothing. She was a great help.

I was running out of options. I decided to try the least creative person at my house, my mother.

"Mom, it's due tomorrow! I need an idea." She gave me the good old mother look.

"You should have been working on it before now." I sighed, something I seemed to be doing a lot of lately.

"Mom, I have been! I have the worst case of writer's block and no one will help me." I almost started crying.

"Have you asked your dad?"

"Yes, he gave me the stupidest idea." She thought for a minute and then gave me this idea:

Once upon a time, there was a young teenage girl who forgot to buckle her seat belt. She went driving with one of her friends in the passenger seat.

An accident happened and she had to slam on the breaks. Both of them got thrown in the windshield and died.

I blinked and went back to my room.

I got to school early and went to the library. Surely I could think of something. One of my friends, Cassie, was there. I asked her.

"Ooh," She gasped. "I know!" She exclaimed.

"What?" I asked hopefully and began to type as she spoke. This last story goes like so:

One day, a girl named Ella moved to a small, rainy town in Southwestern Canada. She moved in with her dad because her mom was traveling around with her boyfriend who played basketball.

Ella hated her new school. Everyone was weird, especially this guy named Eduardo. As soon as Ella walked into her life science class, Eduardo looked like he was about to puke and left.

However, not everything was bad. She did meet an old friend of hers. He was an Indian named Jake.

"Wait, wait, wait," I said. I had stopped typing. "Why does this sound creepily familiar?" Cassie shrugged.

"I took it from my favorite book and movie! Have you seen it? It's called Right After the Sun Goes Down!"

"Uh," I rubbed my face. "You can't write something someone else has already written." She gave me a look.

"So? You can change the names around." I rolled my eyes.

"What? And call it Twilight? They would still sue me." My attempt at extra credit was crashing down around me. Then my dad's idea back to me. My fingers flew.

It turned out awful. My teacher read my story about everyone's story ideas. She gave me one point for creativity, and then took it away because I had copied from everyone else and that was not the instructions. It was worse than a zero. Now I got to take the stinking final exam.

AN: All props to any other author's work to that author. Obviously i dont own either of the two big hits in this story.