Writer's Block

Arthur had 10 hours to make words magically appear on the screen in front of him. Somewhere between his 3rd cup of coffee and pulling his hair out, he heard the faint voice of his dead grandmother ringing in his head.

“A writer?” she’d ask with fear. “But how will you eat? How will you feed your children? How will you find a woman? Can’t you just go to dental school like your cousin Louis? Or be an accountant like your cousin Stefanie? Or a lawyer like your father? You can write your stories on the weekends!” 

Arthur remembered scoffing at her archaic pleadings. He couldn’t be swayed by the promises of stability and fortune – for he was a writer dammit, and writers cared not for such things. They embraced suffering in pursuit of truths. They held a mirror up to society and forced it to look. They changed the world through words. 

But now, older, wiser, and hammering away at the “DELETE” key on a Tuesday evening, he couldn’t help but think that was all a giant pile of bullshit fed to an idealistic young man who knew nothing about the world let alone changing it. No, Arthur understood perfectly what his Grandmother had feared. There was no nobility in his vocation –– only suffering, and yet, he continued. Over three decades he found only a modicum of success – newspaper articles, op-eds, essays, scripts, novellas, etc. each gave faint whispers of reassurance that seemed to only last for a short while. 

Now, the coffee had turned to whisky, and the blinking cursor on the empty page felt like it was mocking him. Part of him was furious. He felt a familiar rage swell inside of him for half a second and felt like whipping his laptop against the wall, but as it often did, the feeling subsided replaced by an apathetic sigh. He began to wonder about the origin of this rage – where did it stem from? What was it aimed at? Had it always been lurking under the surface or was this just the musings of a sleep-deprived, overly-caffeinated, slightly intoxicated writer? 

It was only then that it occurred to him that he was at a critical precipice. Like all of those unfortunate enough to call themselves writers, Arthur had experienced his fair share of creative blockage. Every writer had their coping mechanisms for such occurrences – some forced it out like a literary laxative, and others tried to dampen the blockage with booze, coffee, or sex. If the log jam was bad enough, some even turned to strong hallucinogenics, mind-altering substances that allowed a writer to occupy a new reality. Hemingway went to war. Bukowski drank himself into a stupor. 

Arthur had his own methods. He sat up from his desk, grabbed his keys, and drove out into the night. He drove and drove until the “E” was fully illuminated from his dashboard and abandoned his car on the shoulder of a two-lane highway flanked by dense forest on both sides. From there, he walked, the deafening silence only lessened by the sounds of gravel beneath his feat and the occasional truck that whizzed by. 

After several miles and blistered feet, Arthur saw the faint glow of neon light in the distance – a nondescript watering hole in the middle of nowhere, with a name not worth remembering. A line of motorcycles and a few cars sat outside. He walked up to the line of bikes, inspecting each one before removing a pocket knife from his pocket. Down the line we walked, puncturing holes in the tires of every bike he could see, until reaching the largest motorcycle in the batch – an old school chopper with purple flame decals painted on the side. Arthur placed the knife back into his pocket, and walked into the bar without a care in the world. 

As he swung the door open to the establishment, a line of eyes darted in his direction. Perhaps they weren’t accustomed to having outsiders at this time of night, or perhaps they were put off by the site of the disheveled man. Whatever their reasoning, they all watched as Arthur sauntered over to the bar top and took a seat. 

The bartender, a large man that resembled a less-jolly, tattoo-covered Santa Claus, made his way over to Arthur. 

“You lost pal?” he asked.

“Nope. Just thirsty.” Arthur replied. 

The bartender eyed him suspiciously but returned with an empty glass and a bottle of whisky. He made a healthy pour to which Arthur took in one swig before signaling for another. Arthur glanced around the bar. The group of massive men who had watched him enter, returned to their game of pool – each wearing a leather jacket with the same skull insignia and name - “DEVIL FISTS”.

Arthur couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. 

“Something funny mister?” One of the large bikers rose from his seat and made his way over to the bar. 

Arthur took another sip from his glass before replying.

“Yes, actually. I was just thinking about what literary genius and wordsmith came up with ‘Devil Fists’ as a name for a biker gang.”

The man was almost confused by Arthur’s brazen insult.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean it’s just all wrong for the vibe ya know? I don’t think ‘tough manly men you don’t want to fuck with’ and I don’t think ‘messenger for the devil’ – now THAT would be pretty badass! The Devil’s Messengers. That’s got a nice ring to it. You wanna join my biker gang?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying it sounds like you guys are fisting each other more than it sounds like a biker gang. Words matter. Trust me, I should know.”

With that, the group of men stopped playing pool and joined their friend at the bar. They each towered over Arthur. 

“Ah! Good evening and salutations my fellow fisters. How’s it going?”

The large men grumbled and scowled at the skinny bag of arrogance that sat before them. From behind the wall of leather-clad bikers, a low rumbling voice called out.

“Mister, you picked the wrong bar to pull that crap.”

The giant men that encircled Arthur’s barstool parted like the Red Sea to reveal the largest biker yet – a bearded behemoth that stood well over six feet with the build of a linebacker. His leather vest sported the same purple-flamed decals that Arthur had noticed on his way in. The name “Bud” was etched into the leather just above the flames. He slowly walked towards Arthur and turned his barstool away from the bar to face the posse of bikers that had been gathering. 

“Well? What do you got to say for yourself?”

Arthur looked at Bud with a smirk before letting out a loud burp. 

“Hey Bud – I couldn’t help but notice that cute little bike of yours out there with the purple flames. Does your boyfriend know that you’re not wearing the matching ass-less chaps that he made for you?” 

Bud chuckled with a sinister smile. 

“Well mister, you’ve got balls I’ll give you that. Not for much longer, but still…”

Bud snapped his fingers and two of the bikers went to lock the front door. Meanwhile, Bud and his crew began slowly removing the wide assortment of jewlery on their hands. 

“Any last words stranger?”

Arthur sighed and thought about it for a while. He sat up, his mind in deep contemplation. Suddenly, his eyes went wide. The murky haze clouding his mind began to part he could feel the blockage beginning to dissipate. Words, stories, and characters started to flood his mind like an open dam. 

“Yes! Yes, I do Bud! Thank you so much, you have no idea how badly I needed this. I was backed up for weeks. So what’s next? Some sort of initiation where I have to put my fist up someone’s––” WHACK. With that, Bud landed his fist across Arthur’s face, breaking his nose instantly, sending spurts of blood across the bar. Bud picked him up like a child and tossed him onto the ground. The crew of bikers formed a circle to cheer on their leader as he pummeled the psychotic stranger that had just wandered in moments before. Arthur laughed maniacally as his face turned into a disfifured mess. Bud grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked, furious. 

Arthur spit out a broken tooth with a stream of blood behind it. 

“I’m a writer,” he replied.