Just a Spell of Writer’s Block

Story by Joyce Lee

| WHAT IF? CONTEST

“Hey, Sera.”

Sera glanced towards her left to see the owner of the coffee shop she sat in. “Hi, Jen.” 

“Why are you so glum?” Jen asked, sitting down in the chair across from her.

Sera twirled a pencil around her fingers. “I have an assignment for my creative writing class due in six hours, and I still have no idea what to write about.”

“Hm…” Jen peered at Sera’s empty paper. “What are you feeling right now?”

“Like I have writer’s block. Because I do.”

“Nonsense!” Jen declared. “People fear writer’s block like it’s a disease, but in reality, all you need is a little idea to get you started. It’s not incurable or anything.”

“Disease?” Sera looked up at Jen, her eyes bright. “A disease! That’s perfect! Thanks a bunch, Jen.”

Jen looked at her favorite customer, amused, and grinned.  “That’s what I’m here for.”

———

There was a world, Sera wrote, where futures were set in stone and unchangeable— or seemingly at first glance. Parents dreamed and schemed about their children’s futures once their talents were revealed. Every child’s life was mapped out at a young age. Every child could be great, their parents thought. Every child except those with Writer’s Block.

The Block was the scourge of every writer in history— hundreds of thousands of writers had caught it before the authorities recognized it. They scrambled to create tests that were now used every day before entering a building. Prodigious writers were required to say five synonyms or antonyms of a given word before entrance. Others were asked for two or three, depending on their previous exposure and apparent talent. 

Lindsay was one of those who were asked for five; she had been a strong writer until the Block came along. She poured her heart and soul into every word. Her ideas were from the depths of her mind, every sentence influenced by the strong emotions in her heart. Lindsay passed every synonym test with ease, as she did the fateful morning when it came upon her. 

“Is something wrong, Lindsay?” her teacher asked when Lindsay stared at her paper instead of starting her writing at once. “You did pass your synonym test today, right?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Lindsay replied absentmindedly. “I just don’t have any ideas.”

Lindsay’s English teacher froze. A look of horror flashed over her face — the same look of horror appeared on Sera’s when she realized she had spilled her coffee — and she made no effort to hide it. She ordered the other students, “Get in the hall! It’s Writer’s Block!”

The last three words had an immediate effect on the students, and they sprang into action, pushing and shoving each other to get outside the door quickly. The teacher paid no attention to them, but rather turned back to Lindsay. The screams of terror echoed in Lindsay’s mind as she stared at her classmates retreating from the room. She started to follow them, but her teacher shook her head. “Stay here, Lindsay. The nurse will take care of you.”

———

Oh, you poor dear,” the nurse said sympathetically, patting Lindsay’s head with a gloved hand. “That’s definitely a case of Block, that is. Anyone in the family who writes?” This question was directed to Lindsay’s mother, who stood just outside the door. 

“Yes, her father and I do. Her brother is still in school,” Lindsay’s mother replied.

The nurse frowned. “Do you have any other family members that don’t write?”

“Her grandmother is retired and lives alone. We could take Lindsay there.” 

The nurse nodded. “The Block only affects writers and students. Lindsay will recover, but she will have to be put into special classes for those who are recovering from the Block. She will never excel in writing again, I’m afraid. She will also have to stay with her grandmother alone for a few months.”

Lindsay thought she saw her mother blink back tears as she nodded. Lindsay could practically feel the heartbreak her mother felt when she realized that Lindsay wouldn’t follow the path her mother had carefully planned out so many years ago. 

“There are a few medicines Lindsay should take,” the nurse told her mother, “and some writing exercises she should do.”

“Yes,” Lindsay’s mother whispered. “Okay.”

The nurse gave her a sympathetic look. “Please don’t despair. Lindsay has other talents she can hone. I’m sure she will still grow up to be a successful young woman.”

Lindsay’s mother only nodded, leaving Lindsay to wonder what would happen to her.

———

“Working hard?” a voice asked, and Sera looked up to see Jen.

“I guess,” Sera replied. “I think I’ve gotten over my writer’s block.” 

“Yeah, no kidding,” Jen said, glancing at the word-filled page. “Anyways, I was wondering if you wanted more coffee.” 

“Yes, please.” 

Jen went to get the coffee, and Sera turned back to her paper.

———

Lindsay’s grandmother was old, cranky, and incredibly off-key when it came to singing. Every morning at the crack of dawn she sang (out of tune) to the birds who flitted around the porch, waking Lindsay up. She gave Lindsay the worst oatmeal she had ever tasted — it was so bad that even the smell of it was enough to make Lindsay retreat back into her room. 

“Lindy!” Grandmother trilled one morning as Lindsay lay on her bed, not wanting to get up. “Where are you? I need to get you packed up and ready for school!”

Lindsay sighed. Her grandmother didn’t seem to realize that Lindsay was stuck in the house for the next three months. Lindsay literally had to tell her grandmother that every day was Saturday in order to let her stay home. And the weirdest thing was, she believed it too. 

“Liiiiiinnnnnnnndyyyyyyy!” Grandmother sang, and Lindsay groaned. 

“Coming, Grandmother!” she called back. “And it’s Saturday! I don’t have school.”

“Right!” her grandmother chirped. “Sorry, I forgot!”

Lindsay sighed again as she climbed out of bed, wishing her life could go back to normal. 

———

“Your coffee,” said Jen, handing Sera a cup. 

“Thanks,” Sera replied, accepting it. She took a sip and moved on.

———

Things soon settled into a routine in Grandmother’s house. Lindsay would get up, convince her grandmother that it was Saturday, brush her teeth, eat her gross oatmeal, do the horrible exercises, eat an even worse lunch, take sour medicine, stare at a paper and try to think, eat an absolutely revolting dinner, brush her teeth again, sleep, and repeat. It would have been a busy day if each event didn’t last only about five minutes. 

“Sit, Lindy,” her grandmother called to her one evening, when Lindsay was about to go to bed. “I want to know how you’re doing.”

“Fine,” replied Lindsay, curious. “Why?”

A smile was her only answer. “In a faraway place, parents ask this daily…”

Lindsay listened, intrigued, as her grandmother spun an intricate story about a world where people weren’t confined to the plans of their parents, but were free to do what they wished. Lindsay felt a pang of wistfulness as she listened to her grandmother speak.

Suddenly, Lindsay’s grandmother turned to her, the look on her face serious. “Lindy,”  she said. I need you to do me a favor.”

“What is it?” Lindsay asked, slightly nervous.

 Lindsay’s grandmother’s eyes brightened as she revealed a typewriter Lindsay hadn’t noticed before. Lindsay gaped at it, not sure how to tell her grandmother that it wasn’t the 1900s anymore.“This was my own back in the days,” Grandmother said with a satisfied smile, patting it. It was my best friend back then. Well, until…” Her face clouded over. “Until I got the Block.”

Lindsay felt her eyebrows shoot up on her face. “You had the Block?”

“Yes. It wasn’t easy…” She looked back at Lindsay. “But you know that already.”

“You know I have Writer’s Block?”

Her grandmother gave her a strange look. “Of course I do. It’s not hard to figure out.”

Lindsay almost laughed, wondering how her grandmother could know this and not the days of the week. “Sure.”

“Anyways, I need you to write all of my stories down.”

Lindsay froze. “What? But I have the Block. I can’t do that, you know I can’t.”

“Do you know how the Block works?” her grandmother asked. 

“Of course. It takes over the mind slowly, ridding it of any new ideas.”

Lindsay’s grandmother snapped her fingers. “Exactly. But not old ones. The story I told you before? I wrote it before I had the Block. And as I recovered, I held those stories close to me, remembering them. And though I haven’t come up with any new stories, there is still a library of old ones, waiting for the world. But now, I want assurance that they’ll be kept forever. And as you’re going to be here for the next three months, why don’t you write it?”

“B—but… the Block,” Lindsay protested weakly.

Her grandmother snorted. “Don’t you get it, Lindy? Perhaps the Block is real. Maybe it’s not. I personally think it’s just a figment of our imaginations. But whatever it is, it doesn’t prevent us from writing old ideas down, or ideas from other people. It only slows down our thinking and keeps us from thinking of new ideas.”

“So,” Lindsay said, realizing what her grandmother was thinking. “I can still write down the stories you tell me, because they’re not my own.”

“Yes, child, yes!” Grandmother cried. “Goodness, children these days can be so slow.”

———

It took Lindsay almost two weeks to write the first story. 

It was hard, pulling herself back from the hopeless place where everyone said she should be. It was hard, convincing herself that she could write again.

But she did it. 

The next transcription took only a week. The next one, five days. The one after that, four.

It was fascinating how many stories Grandmother knew. They leaped from fantasy to mystery to science fiction — well, what would have been science fiction back in the ‘50s. But Lindsay was still amazed, not only at Grandmother’s stories, but the change inside of her too.

The director of the Writer’s Block Recuperation Program was sitting at her desk on a chilly morning when Lindsay walked in. “What’s this?” she asked, an eyebrow raised. 

Lindsay smiled sweetly as she tapped the front page. “What I’ve been working on for the past three months. Hope you like it.”

As the director flipped through the pages, she shook her head. This girl and her grandmother had faced destiny and defeated it. They had found a loophole around the ailment, found a way to give those recovering from it a chance. She looked back up at Lindsay. “Goodness, child, I —” She shook her head. “It’s just so hard to believe that a girl with Block wrote this. It’s inspiring, really. And now, I think you’ve made me realize that maybe the people who are recovering from the Block can actually have a chance to write again.” She smiled at the girl who caused her revelation. “Thank you for bringing hope back to our world, Lindsay.”

———

“You done?” Jen asked as Sera leaned back, a satisfied smile on her face. 

“I think so,” she said happily. “Want to read it?”

Jen scanned the pages. “Wow.”

“Do you think it’s okay?” Sera asked anxiously.

“Okay? It’s better than okay! I like the message of this story. Though I just hope people won’t actually think Writer’s Block is a disease now that you’ve written this.”

“Do you think they will? That wasn’t my purpose, I was just trying to exaggerate it and show that even though a situation can seem impossible, there’s always a way out...”

Jen laughed. “I’m just kidding. I think that little touch at the end confirms that people with Writer’s Block can still write their own stories. I’m sure Lindsay will do it someday.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Sera replied. 

Jen patted her on the back. “Good job, kid. You did it. Now,” she said with a wink, “do you want some more coffee? It’s on the house this time. I figure you deserve it.”

Sera laughed as she followed Jen to the counter. “Yes, please!”