Sophie woke up to a set of blocks in her bedroom.

She recognized them immediately.  The ones in the bedroom were small, the sort you’d stumble over.  She picked them up one by one and stacked then against the wall in the space room.  If she got them stacked nicely enough, sometimes they would just go away on their own.  If she didn’t…

There, in the hallway, with yellow and black stripes, blocking the whole traffic path, a bigger one, almost up to her hip.  She went around, down the stairs and then up the back stairs.  She’d move the roadblock later.  First, she needed a shower.  And some coffee.

By the time she got down to her office, she was in no way surprised to see the blocks all over.  They were tall and short and medium and strange-shaped and half invisible.  And the one right in front of her said wash the dishes.

She carried a few of them upstairs and piled them in careful, color-coordinated stacks in the spare bedroom.  Then she washed the dishes, vacuumed the living room, and put in a movie, something that had done really well the past summer.  

The blocks vanished as she carried them upstairs in color matched piles, working around the block in the hallways upstairs.  They vanished as the movie continued to play a little too loudly and as she arranged thirty of them to have the words in the right order, for once, instead of all over the place.

And then she stood on a pile of them and called her agent, arguing over the price of her latest manuscript.  As she finally got things worked out, the last of the blocks melted away.

As she heated up her lunch, Sophie felt the words coming to her.  With relief, she sat down at her desk and wrote.


Written to a prompt from Livewriting Day:

What if Writer’s Block was a physical object that showed up out of nowhere that a writer had to actually destroy in order to get back to writing?


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