Unwanted

She fiddled the pen in her hands, wondering what to put down onto the paper. She had read not envy, but admire, those other writers. The types of writers that could turn written words into whispers. She sighed, rolling the pen around once again. The ideas were supposed to be all around her - in every object, every person and every tune. So why were they so hard to find most days? Just to string together an idea to add to her short collections was proving difficult, sometimes repetitive. Why? For some, the ideas came every minute of every hour, many left discarded for a later date. Why? Being the writer she believed herself to be, were the ideas so minimal, so flat? Why? Her imagination was so blank. Was it tiredness that overwhelmed her? Despite the shows she watched, despite the books she read, despite the stories she wrote for inspiration... the ideas were still turning to dead ends. Like an unwanted writer's block, those dead ends were unwanted.

[170 words]