The Writer’s Curse

Max Wordly sat by the fireplace writing feverishly. Thoughts flooded him, on this cold night, pouring into his mind as if it were a broken dam. He crumpled up another coffee cup and threw it next to the others without taking his pen from the paper. If an outsider were to peek inside, it would look like a minefield had blown up leaving behind distorted figures of plastic cups bleeding out splats of coffee all over the rug alongside crumpled bits of paper. “Gross,” the outsider whispered as he stepped away from Max’s window and continued on his walk. But Max didn’t notice the outsider at his window. He was completely absorbed. Whenever inspiration hit, he had to write down the idea then and there. <blockquote> It was the only way to survive. </blockquote> He knew from experience that leaving words inside his head could be dangerous — even deadly. As the ideas built up, he would begin sweating profusely. Then the multitude of words would crowd the blood cells in his brain making him lightheaded, tightly squeezing his heart, and causing his stomach to burn with acid. Next, his feet would start to swell. Then, his whole body would puff up like a balloon. He wasn’t sure what happened next. But once when he was in this state, he saw a black, cloaked figure with a sickle come knock on his door — and it wasn’t Halloween. Max didn’t open the door but he did get right to writing. As the words filled the page he felt immediate relief and the uninvited visitor left. <a href="https://medium.com/ellemeno/the-writers-curse-94eac8021d6a">Click Here</a>