WRITERS BLOCK (CATHARSIS)

From September 28th, 2011 until November 08 I had managed only to write a few blog entries and a single 50 word flash-fiction story. My productivity after wining third place in a local writing contest dropped to almost nil. The reason? The person I submitted my edited story to for post-contest publication opened my eyes to a singular fact, that is, I have very little grasp of English grammar. It's true. I failed most of my secondary school English classes.

Having my nose rubbed in it was humiliating.

It's easy to blame all of ones less desirable foibles on conditions while growing up. Yes, my parents made mistakes that I do not remember fondly, but I do not blame them for the thoughts and feeling that I have now as an adult. I fight a losing battle against crushing low self-esteem. Any negative reinforcement of this self-critical nature is enough to break down any progress I make towards achieving my goals.

What is my goal as a writer? To make enough money from being published to live comfortably and to be respected for my achievements. I don't want to be rich and famous, just to pay my bills and be liked.

I have received much praise for the work I have done thus far. Due to my own critical nature I question the validity of that praise. I always wonder if it is true, or if people are blowing sunshine up my ass to be kind. The nagging doubt is always there, even when I am being complimented. I do enjoy being told that my writing is good. It makes me feel like I can become a professional writer. Praise is like a drug, once you get a taste you want more. So I keep writing, hoping I will get more of it. When I don't, I start going into withdrawal and crash. The nasty voice inside takes over, telling me what a horror I am.

Even if I never make it as a writer, I would like to think that the attempt has awakened something inside of me. The desire to achieve. To fight back against the nagging voice telling me that I'm not good enough, that I will never be a winner. The only way to do that is to keep trying.

I would like to present you with the flash-fiction story that ended my block. I thought I may try to have it published, but I think instead I will share it with you all.

WARNING – Dark tidings ahead. You have been warned.

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NOVEMBER 8, 2011
THE CLOSET WITH NO DOOR (LIE CAN)

“Do you love me Stephen?” Sandra asked while flicking away a sweaty lock of hair from his eyes. Their lovemaking had been rough but satisfying. She could never tell what he was thinking or feeling by looking into those eyes. Mirrors to his soul they were not. As the seconds ticked by, she knew his silence was the answer. The last two months became meaningless.

Sandra sighed deeply and holding back the hurt, got out of bed and gathered her clothes. She hid in the shadows cast by the full moon to dress. The dark did not protect her from Stephen watching. I AM SUCH A FOOL, she berated herself. She ripped a hole in the light sweater as she pulled it over her head. She didn’t care. She wanted out of his apartment as soon as possible. Before heading for the door she turned to face the man she both wanted and despised.

“Well? Are you going to say anything before I walk out of your life forever?” She demanded.

“How could I love a bitch like you?” Stephen said in a low, even voice. The words stung Sandra more than a hard slap across the face. Time stood still - the heart in her breast froze, mid-explosion.

Shadows swam in unison to the rhythm of a breathless scream. Claws raked at the very air and pierced the veil between realities. Clouds of vitreous smoke belched from fissures zigzagging through the snapshot of the languid tableau. The dark room broke into tiny pieces like a distorted jigsaw puzzle that could never be solved.

A shallow rasping reverberated like thunder in Sandra's awareness. It brought her back from a deep sleep.

Sandra opened her eyes to bright morning sunshine and found herself laying on the bed. Her shredded jeans were soaked, warm and sticky. Looking down she tried to focus on the gurgling cacophony beside her. She was dizzy and nauseated by a terrible smell, the combined pallet of bodily fluids seeping into her clothes and the bedding. They leaked from Stephen, mindlessly clinging to life despite being torn into shreds. His lungs groaned and gurgled with every last breath. A lidless eye, dried out and cloudy, stared at her as if asking 'Why?'

Sandra showered and dressed in a pair of Stephen's boxer shorts and a T-shirt. As she left his apartment she whispered to the mass of flesh she left behind. “Hell hath no fury like a werewolf scorned!”


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