The white page mocks me. Well, it doesn't really do that as white pages, just as hand-made paper or vellum, does lack a certain level of cognition to be able to mock anybody or anything. But still, the white page looks surprisingly smug. And impatient.
     Write on me. Now.
     I can't.
     Write! I say, write! Oh baby, put your precious fluids on my soft skin and rub in your heart's desire!
     I try! But I can't find the right words to begin with the story!
     Well, try harder! I'm not here for my pleasure, you know. Trees had to die so I could lie in front of you! Put your backbone in it!
     Sorry, my backbone won't help me write a decent piece, and you know it. What am I saying, you're just a white piece of paper. You don't know shit.
     The page falls silent. I might have offended it. I shrug and open another packet of cigarettes. I'm back to Gitanes Blondes, The Choice of Discerning Writers Everywhere. Well, of the smoking lot at least. Or those who can't get anything but imported French cigarettes from their tobacco shop. Or are too much of a pussy to try out some real hardcore stuff, such as, say, Lucky Strike.
     I stare at the paper and imagine glistening lines crawling over the smooth surface, outlining the words. That would be handy, wouldn't it? If you just saw the outlines of the story you wanted to write and had to trace it? But then, how is writing different from this, anyway? Writers have ideas, and just try to capture them in words. Bind the ideas with sentences and phrases.
     Hmm. Bondage. Na, don't go there. It's not worth it.
     I grow impatient and light my about tenth cigarette tonight. The white sheet is as spotless as it was three hours ago. Well, not exactly; flecks of ash disturb the pristine whiteness of the paper. As I wipe it off, the ash leaves smudges on the surface. I grudgingly throw the paper into the basket.
     There go another couple of trees. Sheesh.
     I get another piece of paper and smooth it down on my leather writer's pad. For a moment I wonder whether I should go all Train-of-Conscience. Just write down whatever comes to mind, then sift for cool ideas you could turn into stories or, at the very least, into a nice beginning for that blasted story you're supposed to be working on, later on.
     Next cigarette.
     Well, what's that story about, anyway? I try the sensible, structured approach.
     Two people meet in an elevator that gets stuck. They start a conversation, during which it becomes apparent that one of the two killed a lot of people. The punch line would be something like “no, the janitor won't show up to get the elevator running again. I killed him 30 minutes ago.”
     OK, now. Sum it up in one sentence.
     Psycho-killer dude meets prospective customer, err, victim while stuck in an elevator, hints at past crimes without ever giving too much away, makes ironic references to garbage disposal, then kills the other dude. The End.
     But how to begin?
     “So, while we're stuck in this elevator, what exactly do you do for a living?”
     Nope.
     “Mr. Carlyle knew something was up the moment the elevator stopped and the lights went out.”
     Na. Too Gary Larson.
     “Hi, my name is Andrew, I'm a psychopath serial ki...”
     No fucking way.
     I try to distract myself. I listen to gloomy British pop music and sip a beer. After the third can, I'm pretty sure the crumbled piece of paper in the waste bin giggles at me and I call for a stop.
     Airing out. Yes.
     I don my rain coat and black cap and decide on a hike through the woods. Some nature will do my thought processes good. Also, I smell of cheap French cigarettes, and it starts to annoy me.
     Much later, I'm back in my study, even more frustrated. I had all these great ideas about how to start the story but forgot to bloody well take along some bloody pen and paper. I try to remember. Did I start with the punch line? Well, that would certainly work, but how to commence from there on? No, no, must have been something else ... bloody walks when bloody drunk is a bloody bad idea ... was that it?
     “Bloody walks when bloody drunk is a bloody bad idea.”
     No. Definitely not. Another sheet joins the flock in the paper basket.
     More booze? Yes? No?
     I gaze at the next victim of my writer's block's rage.
     Definitely yes.