The Writer's Block

You may think that Writer’s Block is some sort of disease that writers get when they write, especially when they are in the middle of a very popular, money-making series, with merchandise and films to promote it.
         You might also think that it is an injury caused by writing too much, and is similar to Carpal tunnel, in which a large block forms in the wrist of the writer’s dominant hand. But this is not the true nature of the Writer’s Block. It all happened like this:

         In a Woodcarvers shop, on the coast of China lived a woodcarver.  He was an excellent woodcarver, and people came for miles to ask for things to be carved. He had been carving since he was a child, when his father had taught him the art of shaping wood. His father died but a few years after, and that was when he had decided to shut himself away from the world.
His wooden table was littered with little curls of wood and tools and sawdust of varying dustiness. He had cleared a little space for eating; though he liked wood, it was a bit too splintery for him to swallow. There were little carved designs engraved in the thick wooden table top, like doodles blossoming across schoolboy’s work paper.
         It was snowing outside, as usual this time of year, and the tired woodcarver stared lazily out at the swirling flakes, trying to think of something to write. Yes, write. That is what he spent his free time (which was seldom this time of year) doing. Over the years, he had found that being a woodcarver in the middle of nowhere could get quite boring, except during the winter holidays.  He took to  writing little memories down, eventually turning them into short stories.
He had started fibbing a bit with his memories, telling them as he’d remembered them as a young boy, and had now decided to write completely fictional works. Yet, he hated this feeling that he had now, of a sort of emptiness of his thoughts. He threw his quill down in frustration, and kneaded his forehead with his knuckles. As if instinctively, or it might have been fidgeting, he picked up a stray hunk of wood, and began to carve it at random, just feeling the wood slough off in his fingers. He looked down at his carving, and saw a somewhat square-ish block of wood lying in his fingers. Setting it down in the cleared space in front of him, he continued to stare at it, noting that it was most likely the ugliest carving he had ever made.  He sighed, grabbed it, and moved over to the fire, where he prepared to throw it in. He suddenly stopped, the block fell out of his hand, and he ran back to furiously scribble at his parchments, as if the marvelous idea would soon leave him again.
Bang! The door burst open, and a man dressed from head to toe in grey and green stepped in, seemingly blown by the wind. 
“My apologies, my good sir,” he began, taking off his hat. “I’ve come from the little village of Qingdao just a ways over. I have heard...” he faltered, for the woodcarver was not paying any attention. He peered at the carver, who was now feverishly marking his papers.
“I don’t wish to intrude, but I hear you’re the best woodcarver in these parts...I’m a writer, myself, and collect paperweights, as it were. I wondered if you might make one for me.” Seeing that the woodcarver had no intention of doing so, or even acknowledging the poor writer, he fidgeted a bit with the brim of his hat.
“I see, well, I suppose I could come back at a more convenient time... or,” he said, picking the lump of wood off the floor, “How much do you ask for this?” he asked.
The woodcarver waved his hand impatiently at the man.
“Just take it and be gone, my good man,” he said.
“All right then,” the writer adjusted his hat firmly on his head and strode out the door. As he ambled away, marveling at the eccentricity of the woodcarver, he tossed the block to himself and caught it. He did not notice the woodcarver through the window as he slumped back in his chair, his hands over his face in despair.

Once at home, the writer got to work.  On holiday for a few weeks, he thought that he had better make use of his free writing time now, and see if he could come up with anything.  He set the block next to his writing desk, next to his other collected paper weights. He had a passion for collecting wood.  He had traveled all over the country, exchanging books for magnificently carved wooden paperweights.  He had never been to this particular woodcarver’s shop before, but he had suspected that the man would take small par for a small, shapeless block.
This was a token that he had never collected before, a shapeless block of wood.  Yet, since it had been so simple to get, and so cheap, he could forgive the woodcarver for ignoring him.  Running his fingers over the wood, he noticed that it was rough and uneven, and rather raw, as if the woodcarver had only just cut it. He gazed at the grain of the wood creating a pattern, noted the harsh angles and the scratchy texture.
As if in a dream, the writer picked up his pen and began writing a new book, instead of finishing his current one.  He began writing faster, and more feverishly, and continued until he fell asleep on his book.
The next morning he awoke late, and there was a flood of people waiting to buy his books.  He opened the shop quickly; astonished that so many people would show sudden interest in his book.  There were many of people in and out of the book shop all during the morning, and into the afternoon. 
At the end of the day, when the writer was trying ushering customers out of his shop kindly but firmly, he saw a young lad slip out of the shop with something wooden in his hand.
“You, boy! Come back here!” he shouted, half running after him. The boy cast a terrified glance behind him and hopped over a low wall and out of sight. The writer, panting, stopped at the wall, hands on his knees, watching the retreating boy fade into the twilight. He returned to the shop, upset at the loss of part of his collection. He was, however, relieved to note that the only paperweight missing was the shapeless mass for which he’d paid nothing.
Once he’d had a bite to eat, he returned to his study to finish his new piece of work, and perhaps move on to a new one by tomorrow. But as he brandished his quill, he suddenly had that old feeling of dread and cold nothingness creeping into his brain.  He sat for hours, thinking, but every time he raised his quill he set it down again, unable to construct a worthy sentence. Giving up, he went to bed.

The small boy reached his rickety home by the sea shore where he lived with his grandparents. Now safe in his own room, he thought to himself, “I reckon I should give it back, but it’s just a little ol’ piece of wood, kinda ugly, I don’t think he’ll care that it’s gone!”
         He lay on his cot staring at the little block of wood, wondering what it was supposed to be.
“It could be a little ball for playing with...”
         He threw it around the room. It didn’t bounce. He rolled it across the room, to see if it would go smoothly. Not very round, either. He tossed it up in the air and caught it as it came back down. It didn’t go very high, it was fairly heavy. He turned it every which way, trying to determine its use. Eventually he tired of it and fell asleep.
         The next day he took it outside on the sand with his little pad of paper and a charcoal stick, made from driftwood that had been burned.  He loved to draw, and sometimes he would write a little story about one of his drawings.
He set the block down in the sand next to the waves for effect, and turned to a new page to begin writing a story to go along with his drawing.  He wrote for hours, until he could feel the waves lapping at his feet and his grandmother calling for dinner. He tucked the charcoal into his pocket and ran up to the house. Halfway up he remembered the block and ran back to the beach. The block was gone! The waves came up about his ankles, wetting the hems of his trousers. His grandmother called again. He stared out into the sea, and threw his notebook out into it in frustration. On the page, in streaking charcoal was his story, his best story, he was sure.

        “In a Woodcarvers shop, on the coast of Coast lived a woodcarver.  He was an excellent woodcarver, and people came for miles to ask for things to be carved...”