Vignette 3
Of Keys, Locks and Writer’s Block
There is a key on the ground. There are no locks around in which the key could possibly fit. A goldchain runs through the ornate head, broken near the clasp. It has fallen from someone’s neck, discarded to the moss and clover. Sunlight glances off it, now, and for itself, it is prescious.
Archie decides it is the key to his mind. He picks it up, leaving the chain behind, and puts the key into his ear. The clockwork bits shuffle and switch and as he turns the key he can see things that he did not see before and knows things that he could not know, of today and days of yore (your? you’re?). His monkey brain denounces all this. His man brain denounces all this.
His god brain sighs, dusts itself off, and gets ready to go to work.
I have a project going. Maybe it’s silly, but I like the idea of it. I would tell you what it is, but then everyone would want to be doing it, and I have this strange complex where I want to do my ideas first. All I really need to make it a reality is a story I give two whits about. With all these little picture-based vignettes you might not think it, but I’m actually pretty picky about the stories I write. There’s an audition process. Only a few make the cut, and then I mangle them like Michael Bay wrings all meaning and emotion from his movies.
So I’ve got writer’s block. I stare at a blank screen, waiting for one of those stories to come waltzing into my head, roaring to get through my fingertips and into the grand world of cyberspace. None come. When I don’t need them, they’re everywhere. Any daydream I’ve ever had about anything would make a great story, but sit me down to draft it, and my tickerbocker goes dead.
This picture, by the by, has been straight jacked from Paper Tissue. That blog seems to have stolen it from some other place. “Reblogging” isn’t really my thing.
