I'll make tea. That'll help.

I’ve been staring at the screen for three days.

Not continuously, obviously. I’m not a psychopath. I’ve blinked. I’ve slept. I’ve stood up periodically to make tea, which hasn't helped, but it felt correct at the time.

The document is open. The cursor is flashing. Deliberately.

I know it’s deliberate because everything else in the room has also started behaving with intent.

The cursor flashes once. Then again. Slowy. Patiently. As if it has all the time in the world.

I glare back.

“Don’t rush me,” I say.

It flashes.

The title at the top still reads Untitled Document. This feels accusatory. I rename it Draft, immediately regret the optimism, and change it back.

Perhaps I should begin with the opening. This feels reasonable. Stories traditionally begin at the beginning. I remember learning this somewhere.

I type a sentence.

I delete it.

No. That’s wrong. Too serious. Too clever. People might think it’s AI.

I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling, where a small crack has developed that looks faintly like a map of Wales, or my great Aunt Matilda, if I close one eye. It isn't relevant, but my brain insists on noticing it.

The cursor flashes.

Outside, a bird chirps.

Not background birdsong. This is an aggressive chirp. Confident. Repetitive. The sort of chirp that suggests the bird has opinions.

“Can you do that somewhere else?” I say, without looking up.

The bird chirps again, louder.

This is not a coincidence. The bird knows what it’s doing.

I consider closing the window, but that feels like admitting defeat. I will not be dictated to by a passive-aggressive sparrow.

I look back at the screen. Nothing has changed. The cursor continues to flash, patiently and pleased with itself, as if it knows it will outlast me.

“I just need to warm up,” I mutter. “That’s all.”

I open a new tab.

I type writing advice into the search bar, immediately regret it, and close it again.

Another tab opens accidentally.

“Ooo,” I say, out loud, to no one. “An online quiz to discover your spirit animal.”

I pause.

“Well,” I add, reasonably, “I should probably do it. Might come in useful in a pub quiz.”

Two hours and fourteen minutes later, I know several things.

I know my spirit animal is a ferret.

I know ferrets climb up trouser legs because they are curious and untroubled by shame.

I know this does not help the story.

I close the tab.

The sun crawls across the room.

This is deeply unhelpful.

A beam of sunlight lands directly on the screen, at an angle specifically designed to make the text unreadable. It has bypassed every other surface in the room to do this.

I squint.

“Oh, come on,” I say. “Are you working with that bloody bird?”

The sun does not respond. It simply continues shining, as if to say, " You wanted inspiration? Here I am.

Smug git.

I drag the curtain halfway closed. This somehow makes it worse.

The bird chirps again.

The cursor flashes.

My stomach growls, which is uncalled for. Hunger is not relevant to creativity. Hunger is a distraction tactic employed by the body, which has no understanding of deadlines.

I check the time.

It has moved forward in a manner that seems unfair.

“I know,” I say aloud. “I’ll make tea. That’ll help.”

In the kitchen, the kettle takes longer than usual to boil, which feels pointed. While I wait, I stare at the fridge and consider whether rearranging its contents counts as productivity.

It doesn't.

The kettle clicks.

I add the water to the mug. Add the milk. I stir.

I return to my desk with a mug of tea and renewed hope, which lasts approximately six seconds.

The cursor flashes.

I take a sip. It’s too hot. I burn my tongue. The universe hates me.

“Fine,” I say. “Fine. I’ll start anywhere.”

I type:

It was a normal day.

I stop.

“No,” I say immediately. “It absolutely was not.”

Delete.

The bird situation outside has escalated. It's now joined by another bird. They're harmonising. I suspect mockery.

I glare out the window. The birds stare back, unrepentant.

“Don’t act like you don't know what you're doing,” I tell them.

They chirp in unison.

The cursor flashes faster.

“All right,” I say. “You want an ending? I’ll think of an ending.”

I lean back in my chair,

Endings are hard. They require decisions. They require commitment. They require knowing what the story was about in the first place, which feels like an unreasonable ask at this stage.

I snap upright.

“I’ve got it,” I say.

I type quickly, before the thought can escape.

Halfway through the sentence, I realise it makes no sense at all.

I stare at it.

“…No,” I say quietly. “That’s bloody ridiculous.”

Delete.

I rub my face with both hands.

The sun moves again.

The birds chirp.

The cursor flashes.

I consider the possibility that this isn't writer’s block at all, but some sort of cosmic test. The story will only appear once I prove myself worthy. Either that, or I throw the monitor at those bloody birds.

"Will you just shut up!" I yell at them.

There is something deeply wrong with me.

This is not how well-adjusted people behave.

I examine my mug. Empty.

This is important.

“I should make more tea,” I say.

I hesitate.

“No,” I add. “That’s procrastination.”

I sit very still, as if refusing to move might force the words to come to me out of spite.

They do not.

The cursor flashes.

The document remains blank, apart from the title, which has reverted to Draft without my consent.

“That’s rude,” I tell it.

I try free-writing. I try planning. I try to stare intently at the screen as if I can intimidate it into producing a plot.

Nothing happens.

Time passes. I don’t know how much. Enough to feel embarrassing.

I start Googling things I don't need to know. I read an article about medieval door hinges. I watch half of a video titled Ten Things You Didn’t Know About Clouds. I resent myself the entire time.

Eventually, I sit back and exhale.

“This is fine,” I say, to no one. “It's all part of the process.”

“I know,” I say, defeated but practical. “I’ll make tea. That’ll help.”