Writer's block

Here i am, yet again. Staring at an A4, wide rule, 1" margin piece of lined paper. The words used to flow, but now? Nothing. They put a leash on my mind, "this is too explicit", "have you thought about seeing a counsellor?". Seeing a counsellor? Wow. Never have i heard such a stupid suggestion. Sitting in a room alone with a stranger until i have some kind of epiphany? Useless. I write disgusting things. My characters do them, not me. If it was me doing those things then fair enough, put me in a straight jacket in a padded cell. They tried something similar to this once, i spent 6 months in a hospital. Apparently i had the "symptoms" of a psychopath. How does murdering people have symptoms? Nope, i can't think of anything either. I had an interest in biology so i dissected a couple of hamsters, but apparently that means i'm crazy. I was twelve, i didn't know any better. I write about their dreams sometimes. What they would have enjoyed doing; the first one, Harry, liked playing in his wheel in my stories and Felicity liked chewing pieces of paper up. It doesn't make me crazy though, does it?

I was let out of the hospital because i wrote about things instead of doing them. I would never do those things i write about. "I" would, as in the narrator of the story, they're nearly always the main character. There are slight overlaps between our lives, nothing huge though. Sometimes i like to act them out, i often write monologues so i can do this. I do them when i'm outside and there's people around. Interacting with them is great, they react perfectly - they don't know i'm acting so why would they?

There was a girl i met while i was doing this and the character was a tad crazier than normal. I made sure i was gentle but she fainted, she was easy enough to get into the van.

There they are, the blue lights are outside the window now. I rang them, "i" was crazy so i had to to stop "me". I hope "i" didn't hurt her.



At least now i have something to write about.