Charlie slammed her palms down on the table, hissing with frustration. No words. None. A blank page. She missed those years of extreme emotional turmoil, crazy in love, shattered in heartbreak. Oh, how the words were a waterfall she was trying to catch in a glass. Now. Nothing. Like the page. “Life. Is this what it does to everyone?”, she asked aloud to a barely surviving fern on her desk. She plomped herself onto the edge of her bed, looking around at nothing, then gazed at a spot on the wall. She was tired. Tired of the nothingness. This empty bubble of air she lived in. How is a writer supposed to write with nothing inside of them? Could she write about nothingness? She let out a giant “aarrgghhhh” as she got up, steadying herself, like a tight ropewalker, through a mild head rush.
All the prompts in the world were not going to help Charlotte with her writer’s block. She had a lot to say, she always had. Somehow, over the last few years her light and voice had begun dimming. She felt at ease just melting into the background of everyone’s life and to be frank, nobody had seemed to notice, and when she did speak no one seemed to hear. She had slowly gone from friend to acquaintance from interesting to silent. Oddly, she wasn’t unhappy, in fact she would probably say she was content. There wasn’t “joyous occasion” or despair, there was just the mundane and comfortable. So, while she missed the action, she had run out of the energy for it and had become quite accustomed to her humdrum existence. Except when she had to write or feel and, for her, these two things were inextricably linked. There could not be one without the other. She sat back down at her desk and opened the academic article she had to edit for a client. She poured her water glass, half empty, into the fern pot.
Logophile /ˈlɒgə(ʊ)fʌɪl/ 