Writer's Block

The old man sat at his desk as he did every day, awaiting words that refused to appear. Success had ruined him.

He twiddled with his beard, trying to fight the blank page in front of him. Every word that entered his mind was silently criticised and refused.

Still the page remained blank.

His last book had sold millions of copies worldwide, a number that intimidated him. How could he attempt to compete with himself now?

He glanced at the ridiculous number of fan mail on his desk. He read each letter, but time allowed only a few personal replies.

The computer screen turned to its animated screensaver, signalling that he hadn't written for 30 minutes.

He took a sip of coffee and moved the mouse, allowing the screen to return to "Microsoft Word - Document 1".

He had never encountered writer's block with his first book. He had been younger and more enthusiastic, watching everyday life with a passionate interest.

He had prided himself on creating a world for his characters in a matter of days, working all night on a high of creation and instant coffee.

And yet still the page on the computer stared back at him, white and wordless.

His gaze drifted back to the letters from readers, ever willing to give him feedback he didn't want. He couldn't solve their problems.

Sometimes he hated his last book. People had analysed it too much, never seeing it as a simple collection of short stories.

In the beginning it had been an honour to have his work read by so many, but it made it impossible for him to write another book so freely.

He had a desire to write of life, the unique experiences of normal people, but his 'public' called for an autobiography. He had begun one, keen to please and be read, but had deleted the entire two pages a week ago.

Since then he had remained in the study attempting to find a first sentence that clearly didn't want to be found. Publishers were setting deadlines and already publicising the book.

The old man was tired. He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes. Had he created a monster?

Finally he switched off the computer and allowed himself a square of chocolate that he saved for such crises.

He needed a holiday.

In need of some gentle ego-boosting, he picked up a few of the letters and settled into his favourite chair.

He opened the first letter and began reading...

"Dear God...