The Writers Guild - I Can't Find The Right Words Chapter 1

Despite the success of his first novel, the new author finds himself sinking deeper into a frustrating bout of writer’s block. Frustration filled him as he struggled to put pen to paper, the words eluding him on his first draft. Suddenly, now trapped by a world that seemed to come to life straight from the pages of his book and memories of his past. What actions will he take from this point, and will he eventually make his way back home?

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https://limitlesscreativity.org/

Transcript

My eyelids opened, and heart dropped…this nightmare was real. It was still next to me, how disgusting it felt. I let out a sigh of discomfort and just kept my eyes on the ceiling. The blade of the ceiling fan sliced through the dark. Any useless thoughts that still lingered evaporated from my mind, well until I get up. For now, I just wanted to lie here.
My eyelids closed, the echoes of the fan filled the room. The house lay dormant. Just how I like it. I wanted to shield myself off from the world; to just stay here would have been paradise, but the cold hard cover of the book was a reminder, a reminder of how unrealistic that fantasy was.

I was stiff; the depression had sunk back in, what a shame. Not even thirty minutes had passed, and there it was. The iPhone vibrated on the dresser, an annoying tune looped over itself. As irritating as it was, I just laid there. It was a contest of who could out last who…….
the phone won.

 The book would fly off as I reached for the phone, five missed calls from my agent, family, and a few friends.

They're starving for the same thing “Where…Is…The…. Book”.
The book…the book.. the book.
It’s always the same fucking thing every time.

Everyone wants to know when the next book will come out, rushing me after two years of success after my first book. But not only them the fans of it too, where is it?
This attention was intoxicating. To be honest, I couldn't tell you how I came up with my first novel, or how it blew up so fast. To some, they would say skill, to others blind luck of some kind. Maybe it came from a show or something I don’t care. It was the beginning of the end of my writing career.
As early as grade school was when I started and wrote as I got older, each grade it would increase through high school and college. But then it happened…. while finally collecting an agent and spending a year and a half on my first novel, things just took off. Quicker than I expected.

My first novel blew up in ways I couldn’t even imagine. The story wasn’t special; Cover wasn’t unique; and the genre was a run-of-the-mill horror story, but the way I made it out to be read, just made the story hit that much harder for the reader.
Plus, social media has significantly boosted the popularity of nobodies like myself.

But that was my biggest fear, having my first novel increase to this size. Now it makes the rest of my future catalog look average compared to it.
Don’t get me wrong, the love and support was perfect even to have all the people who supported me in the past now see the fruits of my labor, but to repeat something like this..it was…. it was impossible.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, the computer screen filled in my pupils. How much time has gone by with me working on this first draft? The words wouldn’t come out properly. This anxiety was strangling me. It was getting more frustrating each minute I placed on this project. Days would go by, rinse and repeat, starting with a thousand words each day, then they would meet the tail end of the backspace button.
Bags would expand under my eyelids, while my skin grew paler just by becoming a hermit. But I had to give the people something. There had to be another book coming out…Right. 
I dragged my corpse to the computer. Email notifications flooded through my home screen. This was becoming irritating. I departed and then wandered around the house before having breakfast and returning to the computer.
Typing sound
The words danced across the page, appearing and disappearing with each passing moment. Just more garbage gift wrapped in clichés. Where is this story? What is this story? Had I forgotten on what I had wanted to write in the first place? Maybe spinning around would throw some ideas, they didn’t.. instead I just zoned out.
This pressure was too heavy to lift. Why did I want to do this anymore? What was the reason I wrote in the first place?
I hate writing…. I hate writing so much….. Why am I doing this to myself if I hate it so much?
My focused turned to the open book on the ground, the adrenaline sunk in, sweat spilled from my forehead and I remembered. It was all because of this stupid book, this stupid fucking book. Like a lion, I pounced on my prey and mutilated it, ripping it page by page.
Page tearing sound
Crumbling chapters up, stripping the hardcover of its body, then going after the book jacket, tearing away the book’s identity. But it wasn’t over yet. I knelt down, dissecting each page down to its molecule. This book needed to know…no it needed to feel the disgust I felt towards it. More, more, I needed this book to evaporate.

Heavy breathing
When did I stop? I couldn’t tell you, but once the pages became specks, I took a break to catch my breath. It was something that I needed. The evidence formed like an oval around me. Am I done writing? but before I could finish that thought, something broke the silence.

Water dripping

It sounded like something was leaking.

Water dripping

I controlled my breathing to hear it better. The echoes of water were coming from the closet. That was impossible. There was nothing in there for it to leak. “It seems like everything is out to provoke a reaction from me.” I scoffed. With each step towards the closet, the sound of the leaking grew louder, like a steady rhythm. I lifted my hand, tracing it across anything that was damp. The closet was basic size, with the rack being filled with hung clothes, some containers on the floor and a few boxes on a top shelf.

Water dripping more

More water piled onto itself, but the more I checked the ceiling, the less sense it was making. There was no hole or crack in the wall. Curiosity was growing. I raced my hands across the carpet, searching for any sign of moisture. However, the floor felt completely dry. It made no sense. The water was still leaking, but from where? There was no dampness to the floor. The carpet was devoid of water.
This was pointless. Maybe the stress of the book was getting to me. Wait a minute, this was a scene. Just like the book, a similar scene played out the same. The only thing the main character had to do to stop it was….

Water dripping

In that moment, I stood frozen, scoffing at the line. The book had completely consumed me. This was ridiculous. As I was leaving, the edge of the doorway was near me. A drop of curiosity still lingered.
In the book, the main character also looks through the closet, hearing water drip, but there was no water anywhere in the closet until he checked the back of the closet as he went deeper in. With each push against the wall, he could sense its resistance, until he lost his balance and tumbled into a sprawling expanse of water. This scenario almost mirrored that chapter, but this was stupid. It had to be. My imagination was expansive, especially being a writer, but this was insane. 
But I indulged it. I mimicked the scenes of the chapter. My nerves were getting the best of me until I felt the cold, psychical manifestation of reality. The wall was still there, and the water had stopped leaking.
A grin washed over my face and I started laughing…..

Large Splash

I gasped for air. The violence of the waves tackled my body…this wasn’t real…this wasn’t…real.
My mind was repeating to itself, but this water felt tangible,...
the water pouring itself into my lungs felt real… What the fuck was going on?
Keeping myself afloat was impossible. Every time I tried, I would end up sinking deeper. The water was murky and dull, light was nowhere in sight. Where was I? How did I end up here? Was I in my story?
There was no time to think. My body was a rag doll playing tug of war with the waves.
Need to regain control, but it was useless. The water was hostile. What a cruel fate, to die at the hands of my own words.
And that’s when I gave in. My strength was already low to begin with. Descending deeper into the darkness, deeper into this foreign sea.
The surface shrinking further back, both lungs couldn’t hold the limited air I caught, bubbles started climbing towards the surface. The drowsiness was emerging..my eyes were heavy…. Peace washed over me as I embraced this watery grave. I fell asleep. The sound of water plugging my ears felt peaceful.

Sound of water and something sinking

A sound of a hand slamming against a desk

“Mr. Anderson, it’s not nap time. Get ready to present your essay quickly, Mr. Anderson.” Drool fell from the corner of my mouth. The grogginess subsided. Wait…Mr. Anderson… besides my parents, I haven’t heard that name since high school. Mrs. Peters would always call me that, but she had retired years ago. Adjusting my eye’s I could tell that this lady in front of me bore a strong resemblance to her. A short fragile woman with low cut gray hair rocking black glasses, but as I recall, she looked much older than this. Now the wrinkles near her mouth had vanished, her youth had returned. My eyes traced  at my desk, an old wooden type with metal bars touching the ground, sitting in an old metal chair then through the room. Not only did it look like my old classroom. But also felt like it too being surrounded by many classmates that have been long ignored.
As I rose from my seat, I surveyed the classroom, taking in the sight of students standing together, chatting, and exchanging papers, instantly transporting me back to my high school days.
Think… project…. Project, I scrambled through papers, now I remember. An essay, read out aloud as a replacement for a quiz, some type of short story that was centered on the genre of thriller and horror. Something based on an old Edgar Allen Poe story that we just got done reading. This is unbelievable. I could have sworn for a moment I was in my house and then drowning how the hell did I go back in time? This is crazy.
I strolled around, observing the youthful faces of my former high school classmates. The scent of fresh paper and ink lingered in the air, transporting me back to those long-forgotten days. Their names, once etched in my memory, now faded into the abyss. I couldn’t help but notice the happiness on their faces, which would soon turn into weariness right after being trapped into dead-end jobs in the future. Meanwhile, fortune smiled upon me, blessed with the opportunity to work from the comfort of my own home, all thanks to a single book.
I went back to my desk defeated but playing along to the scene. And glanced at the notebook. This entire scene was familiar. This assignment was also a critique project where students received little sheets to review the best piece and what stood out to you as the reader.
To be honest, this assignment was pointless, but it got me comfortable to reviews and critiques about my work. Nothing too major since it's high school, but still a good place to start from.
As I sat down, the rest of the students all took their seats. Mrs. Peters handed out the notes for us to write our reviews.
This is before I was overly critical of my writing, and it was a pastime of me dabbling more into my creativity. Then with college I learned structure which led to the birth of my book after a couple of years. At this time, it was still fun to write.

One after the other, read off their stories. Some about a haunted house, others about family murders, and so on. But I remembered this exact scene. I chuckled because I remember my story garnering so much attention that it reminded me of how good of a writer I actually was. A huge load fell off of my chest. How long since I told myself that, but then again, what is a talented writer? This was high school. Did this even count? Before a million more thoughts could flood my head, my name was called. Confidently, I grabbed the sheet of paper and strolled to the front of the classroom. This was the moment that solidified me on wanting to become a writer.
Without looking, I read out the title, “My story is called Schizophrenia”. Excitement mixed with tension swam through my body. To get to read this again, the jump-start of my career, I looked down to start off reading. But something was wrong. The page was blank. There were no words.