She sat there and stared at the blank screen. More than 15 minutes had passed like that. Neither the coffee, nor the music helped…
Publisher’s deadline was tight and the writer’s block was the last thing she needed now.
Where did the words go? Why nothing comes out?
She had tried everything that helped before. She took a shower, had coffee, had her writing music on… nothing worked.
What did she do to chase the muse away? Was she dependent on the muse and could not write without it?
She was pressed between the publisher’s deadline, the doubts that were growing inside and the fear of failure.
Right now she stared at a blank screen, but what if what she writes turns to be crap? What if the publisher finds out that she is just another person, who thinks she can write but in fact can’t?
Is noon too early for Jack Daniels? Well who is deciding when is it ok to drink alcohol?
She came back with a large glass filled with ice and whiskey. Even if it doesn’t bring the words back she won’t care when the glass becomes empty.
She drank slowly closing her eyes with each sip. The liquid went down warming up its way inside. She relaxed more and her doubts decreased with each sip. With her eyes still closed she went back to the archives of her memories.
Each memory was a story by itself. Now all she needed to do was type them…
P.S. I don't drink whiskey