Angela's Block

Angela twirled a pencil in her long fingers, eyes fixed on the window. As she stared, a tree swayed gently with the breeze, its small green buds drawing attention after the long winter months with little to no life. The birds, feeling the change in the air, were chirping endlessly to announce that spring was coming. But Angela was not thinking about trees, birds, or spring at all. In fact, she was not thinking about anything. And that was the problem.

Three very long hours ago, Angela had come up to the writing studio and sat down at one of the wooden desks. There were 15 desks in total. Each desk had a narrow pouch carved into it, along the back of the desk, where writers could store their pencils. Next to it was a similar, more circular divot in the wood where writers could store their erasers, post-it notes, paper clips, and any other miscellaneous items they might need. These desks were lined up in three rows of five, with a line of windows along the wall on the right side of the room–at least it was to the right of those sitting at a desk.

Angela had chosen her favorite corner. All the way in the back, next to the windows, this desk allowed Angela plenty of space to think without interruption. From fantasy plots of heroes and villains to witty banter between friends, the writing prompts were often too many to count. That was the very reason why Angela loved writing.

The numbers might blur together in math, the formulas might get mixed up in chemistry, but when it came to writing–here, in the studio–everything was easy; everything made sense. The dusty scent of wood, pencils, and paper; the rustle of papers moving, pencils scratching, and erasers rubbing; the sunlight pouring through the window: it was all perfect.

But today was different. After opening her notebook to the next clean page, Angela had done nothing but stare absentmindedly out the window. Her pencil hung suspended in the air, ready to trace the outline for her newest story, ready to bring her characters to life, ready…and waiting.

Angela flung her pencil down, her frown deepening as it bounced loudly across her desk, grabbing the attention of those sitting next to her. She blew out a breadth of frustration. The clock on the wall was ticking agonizingly slow, and yet she felt as though time was slipping through her hands, too fast to catch. Angela needed an idea, an outline of her next story, to hand in before today’s session ended, and time was running out.

The rain poured down Angela, soaking her tight bun, running down her cheeks, and making her clothes stick tightly to her body. As she trudged across the street, Angela recalled the embarrassment she had just experienced. Everyone else, one by one, had walked up to the front of the room, placed their outlines in the box and then sat down. When it was Angela’s turn, her heart had raced, her eyes had remained fixed on her hands which played absentmindedly with a pencil, her cheeks had swelled with color, and when she had finally worked up the courage to mumble that she had nothing to turn in, everyone turned and stared.

While Angela had tried not to look, she could not help but hear the whispers. The murmurs about how Angela’s family would have nothing to eat for the week and would not be allowed to attend any of the community events until Angela turned in that outline.

The blood rose to her face once again as Angela considered having to tell her mother that she had failed. She had been unable to write. Was her talent failing? Was she becoming one of those kids who couldn’t do anything? Every person in town had some sort of a talent. It could be math, architecture, reading, science, almost anything under the sun. From the moment someone found their talent, around 10-12 years old, they were responsible for providing for their family. Those who used their talent well were showered with praise and became rich with gifts. Those who did not were given less. And to those who did not use their gifts, or whose gifts somehow failed, was allotted shame, isolation, poverty. In Angela’s town, talent meant success, security, and acceptance.

Was she becoming one of those shameful people who were unable to use their gifts and became poor beyond imagining? But Angela could not let that happen. After all, she had to think about her mother and her three little siblings. What would they do without her?

Knock, knock. “Mrs. Weaver, may I come in?” Angela stood outside a small house on the outskirts of town. Before going home, she had stopped here, deciding that a call to the town’s most proficient author would be wise, given her condition. Angela desperately needed answers. Why was her talent failing? How could she get it back? But at the same time, she was hesitant to admit to anyone, even one of the wisest and kindest people in town, that she had been unable to write.

“Yes, dear,” a soft voice called out from somewhere in the house, “the door is open, come on in.” Angela pushed open the worn, brown door, and squeezed out the excess water in her clothes before stepping inside.

Mrs. Weaver was sitting on a rocker in the corner of the living room. The wallpaper of the room was peeling with age, and yet it could be seen that it had once been a vibrant red. The room was decorated sparsely. Just a lamp in the corner, which gave off a flickering light, and the rocker Mrs. Weaver sat on. The burgundy paint was peeling away in many places, and Angela wondered if, one day, it would just fall apart.

“Ahh, if it isn’t Angela Escritor–the up and coming writing virtuoso,” Mrs. Weaver chuckled, eyes twinkling.

“Yes, it’s actually about that…” Angela began nervously. She had no idea how to ask someone about how to stop failing at something she was not supposed to fail at… Angela wrung her fingers, bit her lip, and looked up at the wall as she gave it her best shot. “I guess I was wondering if, you know–for you–or for me, or any writer for that matter, umm what they would do if–well, if–if they were having a hard time coming up with ideas. Or, I guess what I’m trying to say is–”

“Ahh, writer’s block?” Mrs. Weaver interrupted.

“Yes,” Angela gushed, relieved that Mrs. Weaver had put an end to her irrational babbling. Mrs. Weaver had an amused smile on her face, as if she were laughing at Angela’s embarrassment. But her eyes were also misted over, as if she was remembering exactly what it felt like to be unable to write. Mrs. Weaver not being able to write–unthinkable. Her books were things of legend; there was no way she struggled…right?

“I remember a time when I had writer’s block, you know.” Angela’s face snapped up in surprise. Her mouth must have actually dropped open in surprise since Mrs. Weaver then tilted her head back and laughed, eyes crinkling at the edges.

“Oh yes, dear. There was a time when I could hardly write more than a sentence or two without throwing a fit. Writing hasn’t always come so naturally for me. As a matter of fact, I didn’t like writing at all until third grade. I remember hearing squirrels chirping outside my bedroom window earlier that day. And so, when I got to school, my teacher didn’t even have to force me. I just wrote about what I’d seen, filling in words and emotions to match the scene I’d witnessed.”

“Remember, dear,” Mrs. Weaver continued, “we are humans. Even us, skilled though we may be, must take time to rest. You must allow your mind a break to wander into the worlds of books, to admire the beauty of nature, to feel the joys of relationships. It is only when your mind is most relaxed, and your heart is most full, that writing will come most easily. You must be kind to yourself.”

Angela’s shoulders slumped in exhaustion, and her face crumpled in defeat. She knew everything Mrs. Weaver said was true, but she did not want to stop writing; she never did.

“Think about it.” Mrs. Weaver’s gentle voice cut through the fog of Angela’s thoughts. “When you write, do you invent entirely new things, or do you just imitate that which you see?” Angela thought about it. The fantasy plots were usually variations of stories she had read. The playful banter she wrote was usually based on interactions in her own family. And almost all of her description came from describing things she saw in nature.

“Yes, you see what I’m saying, dear.” Mrs. Weaver said as realization lit up Angela’s face. “Writing is not the art of creation. It is the art of illustrating. We paint a picture with words. A picture of something we want to share with the reader: a scene of wonder or beauty, a relationship of heartbreak or joy, a character of flaws and strengths–the opportunities are endless! But we cannot paint a picture that we have not seen. That which we write about best is that which we have seen most clearly, cherished most deeply, and experienced most fully. Thus, to be a good writer you must constantly recognize the beauty around you, and you must find the words to select it. By cramming yourself in a room, without books, people, or nature, you are cutting off three of your best avenues for inspiration. Remember that, dear, and you will go far in life.”

Angela thanked Mrs. Weaver profusely, exchanged a hasty goodbye, and then ran out the door, mind was swirling. Maybe she was being too hard on herself. She had been spending more and more time in her room, writing almost non-stop. Now that she thought about it, it had been over a week since she had eaten a meal with her family, and nearly twice that since she had gone on a walk outside. Could that really be her problem? But just as her father had excelled in athletics and her mother in painting, she now excelled in writing; this was her talent. And didn’t that mean that writing was supposed to be easy for her? Wasn’t the whole point of writing creating something new?

“Angela, Angela, is that you?” Her mom’s voice called, high-pitched in concern as it broke into her thoughts. Angela sighed. She would deal with her problems later. For now, she would let her mom take care of her, and maybe, just maybe, she would take Mrs. Weaver’s advice to be with people. After all, one night as a break from writing could hardly do much damage.

Angela woke up the next morning, refreshed–for once. She changed out of her wrinkled clothes, which she had fallen asleep in the night before, and got her bag ready for school. After a hurried breakfast and a hasty goodbye to her mother, Angela ran out the door.

Before heading to the writing studio, Angela took a stop at the woods. She decided that she would test Mrs. Weaver’s theory and witness the beauty of nature. She walked for no more than 20 minutes, amazed by the beauty and relaxed in the tranquility. When she finally made it to school and sat down at her desk, she forgot the problems of the previous day. She picked up her pencil and she wrote:

As she walked through the woods, the scent of freshly fallen rain rose up to meet her, lush and sweet. The grass was laden with rain drops that were precariously positioned to cast hundreds of rainbows all around. The birds were sleepily exchanging words back and forth, providing the only sound that disturbed the sacred stillness of the scene. As she looked around her, she noticed the flowers blossoming around the trunk of a nearby tree, the moss growing on an exposed stone, the branches of the trees intertwining to form a canopy above her, and the sunlight falling through the canopy at odd angles to form a mosaic on the grassy floor beneath her feet.

It felt almost as if she was walking in a carefully crafted portrait. Only, there was no artist skilled enough to create a scene of such surpassing beauty. No, this was Nature, and nothing could rival her creative powers.

Angela stopped writing. Could it be? Could it truly be that by taking a walk in the woods, she had fixed her problem? However, Angela’s story was far from finished. She needed to write about the main character herself. She put her pencil to the paper and continued:

When she got home from her walk, tired yet happy, her mother was there to greet her. Her mother gathered her in her arms, squeezing her tightly. She whispered against her daughter’s hair, reminding her that she always loved her no matter what. As they stood there, embraced in the arms of each other, each felt a deeper and stronger embrace. They felt seen, known, and loved. And that was an embrace which no words, no actions, nothing in the world could communicate quite truly.

Angela felt a tear slide down her cheek and land on her paper with a splash. Oh yes, Mrs. Weaver was so right. Writing was not about creating. It was so much more. With her words, Angela had just captured, for anyone to see, the abstract emotion of love and the sacred scene of love displayed. For those who had the eyes to see and the words to use, writing was about painting an image that reflected something far better, something far more beautiful. It was an art.