Okay. So I need help. Not professional help for my mental health—although if this continues I suspect I may need some, after all—but in my writing. (Note: By “this” I mean “life”)
I don’t really have a writer’s block. What I have— nay, what I am, is rusty.Like my iron ashtray, left outside on the roofless balcony during the harsh winter months, I need to rekindle the fire—even if it’s with searing cigarette butts. Because the latter seems to be what my ideas are made of lately—dark ashes clouding my mind, clogging the blood vessels where creativity is supposed to flow, unhindered.
You see, the paragraph above is supposed to show just what kind of writing I’m capable of creating at this moment. I haven’t written anything for longer than I’d like to admit and, if I don’t start to write soon, I’m afraid I can no longer claim to be a member of the exclusive club currently amassing members worldwide at a frightening rate: The Writers Club.
Just now I had an idea. Instead of rummaging through the ashes to see what I can find, I’ve decided to let you, the readers of my blog, to unclog me. Give me a short sentence, which I will use as the opening sentence of my next short story. It can be anything, as long as it’s not inappropriate or abusive.
In return, I will give you this: my promise, my commitment, that I will write a story dedicated to you, which I will finish by the end of next week. I figured if I could get at least one prompt from one of you, that should give me just enough fuel to burn.
This way I, you, we, will force me to write and put aside all excuses. And at the same time, you can let me know what it is you’d like to read.
So please help a (fellow) writer. Because nothing is as vicious and hazardous as a writer out of work.