It was 1pm and silent apart from the clock’s everlasting ticking. Nobody else was at home. Lucy could think of nothing, the emptiness seem to echo around her head the way that a microphone will pick up interference. Getting louder and more unbearable. Lucy threw down her pen and reached for her headphones, her chair creaking as she did.
‘Some music will help’ she thought.
But the clock was still ticking, her chair was still creaking. She picked up the pen again and tapped it upon the table, looking blankly at the empty lines on the paper in front of her.
‘I just have to write something! Something’ she thought, ‘About me… What would anyone want to know about me?’
Lucy had always loved writing ever since she was a child and she had written stories on anything she could get her hands on. She had written on the walls, her bedsheets, her clothes. But now… now, she didn’t know what to write.
The sun was coming out, and she had that assignment to press on with.
It was rare she got writers’ block, as she had a notebook packed with ideas for things to write, most of which came to her at 3am when she had work at 10am the next morning! It included ideas for reviews of events she wanted to go to, short-stories, and other inner-musings that were probably never going make it to the page.
She pressed her pen upon the page, hoping words would flow from its ball-point tip. She loved the feeling of wet ink on a page, its shine in the light of her desk-lamp, and how careful you had to be not to let it smudge.
She looked at the time, and wrote it down, carving the shapes of the letters into the white paper and causing an indent. At least it was a start.
It was the start.