Writer's Blocks

Writer's blocks, the bane of my existence. I try to think, but my nouns aren’t specific, my verbs aren’t powerful, my phrasing is plain as day, and my starts are all boring. I can barely get a solid idea that I like. After what feels like years of thinking, I choose a petty topic, but the best I manage is this:

Pumpkins surrounded me, a field of orange, lumpy shapes, as I try to find the perfect one for carving. Being a teenager, I know that this will probably be my last Halloween, and I want to make it count. I had already picked out a costume: a generic, but classic vampire. Nothing too flashy, but I thought a vampire captured the essence of Halloween the best. Now all I needed to do was to find the perfect pumpkin.

My eyes, scanned the field come acros the perfect pumpkn. Not a pumpkin in those cheesy childrns stories, that is ugly and unwanted, but the most symmetric, perfectly colored and

A stupid piece about pumpkins and Halloween that I don’t even finish, filled with grammatical and spelling errors that I am too lazy to fix. After the last sentence, my brain becomes as blank as a sheet of paper. My usual plethora of ideas is gone, replaced my frustration and anger. My face is a mask of rage and ire. The more I think the less is there. Appositive phrases and adjectives shifted out of place. What are those again? I can’t even remember the basics of writing well. I try to make my writing better, but the turnout is that rambly junk. Just as I am about to give up, an idea suddenly strikes, a bullet of inspiration shot into my head. Grasping the idea and holding on, I write everything that comes to mind.

Heat blazing from the constant fire, a frenzy of red-yellow flames, I wipe a bead of sweat off of my face. Black soot covering my hands, I grasp the large heavy hammer and strike the glowing metal, sending a jolt up my arm. The iron rod bends to my blows gradually forming into the shape I want. Heat fades from the rod, I stick it back in the hearth. Dipping my tools into cool water makes tendrils of steam rise to the ceiling. I sit, waiting for the metal to heat up and the strain on all of my muscles relaxes. The acrid smell of the forge surrounds me and I breathe in deeply.

“One more round should do it, “ I think to myself.

I wince as the hammer hits the metal, creating a high pitched ping, a banshee’s tortured scream. Twice more I pound the iron. Finally I have acquired the shape I desire. A dagger, small and sharp sits on the anvil, glinting in the dim light. I sit back and sigh, content with my work.

I sit back in my chair and read over my work. A decent start, but It could use some work.

“I’ll do it later,” I think to myself. Right now I am just happy I overcame my dreaded writer's block.