This is part one of Writers block. The protagonist is myself and the antagonist is Mr. Mind. The conflict is a book or poem that does not want to be written.

So this is how the story kicks off.

I am on the table or on the bed. I have a phone before me, a pen or my fingers. I want to write so I tell Mr Mind

"Mr mind, I want to write."

And Mr. Mind tells me.

"That's not possible."

"Why?"

"Because it's difficult. It's a waste of time and there are better, more meaningful things to do than write."

"Come on," Mr Mind says, " your phone has Netflix right? Didn't you pay for the subscription?" I say

"Mr Mind, forget Netflix for now. I need to write. My dream is to become a famous writer like Mr. Roland who I met last Thursday, or Adichie."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'd like to."

"Oh, let's see about that."

A message pops up on my phone. It is about a boy, younger than myself who has won another poetry prize, this time it's Jack 'ducking' Grapes. It is about a boy, also younger than myself who just got published on Lolwe, Chestnut. But I'm on the bed trying to figure it all out.

"Mr. Mind, are you there?"

Yeah? Let me rest please."

"I have a deadline coming up soon. I know I've never been published on some litmags. If I could just write a Poem, Prose, whatever I want to try."

"Emm...No. Right now I want to watch the forbidden."

"What?"

"Nevermind."

"Okay, Mr. Mind. I wrote a story. Not complete. Can I at least finish it with your help?"

"Well, that story's too big for you. That story is stupid. That story is too confetti, too fleur-de-lis."

"You learnt that word recently, I suppose."

Yeah, so?"

"Fash it, Mind. If you won't help me, I might as well go to sleep again.

"Go ahead, lazy ass. Don't try to be some serious jerk."

Dear reader, the denouement is frustration. I stare at the blank page, the empty screen. I'm hungry. I'm angry, and I sleep before Netflix.



© I.K Inyang