The Writers Guild - I Can't Find The Right Words Chapter 5

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? 

Website-

https://www.limitlesscreativity.org/

Music Credits-

CO.AG

Transcript

   As I entered the empty library, I could barely make out the rows upon rows of books in the dim lighting. There seemed to be no end to these shelves, and the building of this library was massive. Glass walls enclosed the space, offering a breathtaking view of the nocturnal forest landscape.
It seemed weird to point out, but there was this stillness inside. I had always wanted to know what it felt like being in a library at night by yourself. Some would find this setting creepy, but I found it to be relaxing. I was back in my plain t-shirt and gym shorts, feeling utterly unremarkable in my appearance. As I continued walking through it, the solitude became more apparent. Despite my efforts, finding a door to this place seemed utterly impossible. Walking around the massive towers of bookshelves, I couldn’t help but grin at the musty scent of old books that filled the air. Tracing my fingers across each book gave me a sense of euphoria. Every time I was in a library, I could turn the world off and just think. Whenever I had an exam, or  free time, the library was always there for me. It’s not like I grew up in a poor household, it was just that the library felt like a second home to me.
Even working on my first title, I spent months holed up at the library, crafting the pieces to my story. And I guess this was why I was here, to take a step back and to figure out how to get back home. And so I pressed on. It made little sense the High School, the cafe, the theater. Besides my writing, these places had little connection, and even then, they had very few connections to my first book. The latter two was talking with my agent about the many publishing houses that would risk publishing a story like this and doing a public reading at a few theaters for it before launch. But the high school was only when I first took writing seriously. It had nothing to do with the first novel.
Maybe that was how this place functioned. Perhaps just lost in the depths of my thoughts, replaying various scenes from my life, each one taking a dark and twisted turn. 
But that still doesn’t explain everything from this place. Sarah spoke to me at the theater, like she knew I was getting closer to something, maybe to the end of this place. Then again, I ended up falling through my closet, so that doesn’t exactly boost my confidence either.
Well then, what was I supposed to do now? Endlessly walk down to find an exit, or maybe it was like a video game and I had to find my book out of this behemoth of novels. Fuck me, but to be honest, if I could find food, I wouldn’t mind being stuck in this limbo world of books. As I ascended the stairs, the soft glow of the moon illuminated the graceful dance of the grass and trees swaying in the wind. The sight was so peaceful that I felt reluctant to tear my gaze away from it.

Books falling

What the hell was that? As I thought to myself, I instinctively crouched behind a shelf, straining to peer into the aisles.
I thought I was alone in here; the shadows obscuring any discernible shapes from view. As seconds passed I held my position. Please, just let this be my imagination. A few minutes ticked by in silence, causing me to wonder if whatever made that noise had already vanished.

Books falling from the shelves

Heavy Footsteps start running

After hearing that, I wasted no time and sprinted off. As I frantically searched for a hiding spot, the sound of heavy breathing and quick footsteps filled the air. I couldn’t determine the direction it was coming from, but I knew I had to find shelter soon.
The footsteps sounded like they were getting louder or getting closer. It was impossible to discern the two.

Unfamiliar groans

My face was a canvas of disgust and horror, the emotions etched onto my features like a permanent mask. The anxiety was building up, and I could feel a presence lurking nearby, but now too terrified to turn and face it, fearing that once seen, it could never be unseen.
Scurrying down the stairs, skulking through a new aisle of books, their intoxicating scent filling my nostrils as I cover my mouth to stifle a gasp.

Heavy footsteps

Unfamiliar groans

It was close now; the tension mounting as my options dwindled. Determined, I stood up and carefully pulled back a book to create a peephole. Thankfully, I found myself close to the transparent glass walls, surrounded by lush green plants and tables, but there was still no visible way out. Wait, I saw something small, a shadow playing under the table. I pulled back three more books to get a better look. It was a child, dressed in a vibrant blue and yellow t-shirt and shorts, nervously covering his mouth with his hands. The boy looked petrified, his eyes wide with fear, but then he spotted me. We locked eyes, and a sense of relief washed over him as he waved me over.
A million questions ran through my mind, but I nodded. I looked both ways, making sure there was no one in sight, and swiftly made my way towards the table. Before I could even utter a word, the boy swiftly placed his hand over my mouth. In that very moment, an eerie noise filled the air as something slowly passed us, emitting strange groans and moans. Its heavy footsteps resonated, shaking the ground beneath us. As it passed, a single page fluttered to the ground, dropped from its feet.
As the heat intensified, a tiny droplet of sweat made its way down my temple.
“Okay, he’s gone,”
“What is this place, and what is that thing out there?”
“It’s you Jake,”
“What are you talking about, kid? I am right here. And how did you know my name?”
“Because…mom gave us that name.”
“Mom? Wait, do you mean you're Jake too? Your me?”
“Yes, I am.”
“That makes little sense.. none of this makes any sense.”
“It’s not supposed to, Jake, because you’re the one creating this.”
“What? How? That doesn’t sound right?”
“Quiet, he’s coming back.”
“Coming back why?”
“To force us to stop writing.”
“Wait to stop us from writing.”
“Yes, don’t worry. Once we get to the mirror, it will all make sense.”
“None of this world makes sense. You’re not getting it. Why would I stop myself from writing when I don’t want to write?”
Once again, Jake, the child, forcefully covered my mouth as a menacing, guttural sound escaped the creature in search of us. I couldn’t fathom how this pitiful creature standing before me could be any alternate version of myself. The child bore a striking resemblance to me, with the same hair color and scar beneath his lip, but I couldn’t help but feel that this was a stretch.
The creature had now left. “Okay, how does a mirror help us?”
“It will help show you the truth and give you the answers to getting out of here.”
“How do you even know that?”
“Because I am the rational part of your head, the part that can still imagine the stories you used to write before middle school.”
“Wait? What?”
“Now!”
The boy’s grip tightened on my arm as we raced down the aisle of books, navigating the labyrinthine maze of the library.
The sound of the table being flipped echoed through the room, followed by the thunderous charge of heavy footsteps towards us. The creature’s heavy footsteps echoed through the air as it gurgled, spouted, and moaned at us. Searching for us. It felt close, as if it was just a couple of turns ahead of us. The bookshelves seemed to have a life of their own, shifting and swaying, as if purposely creating a barrier between us and it. Was the boy doing this or was I doing it?
“It’s the door!” The boy yelped. Amongst the glass wall, a weathered, old wooden door caught my eye, adorned with a gleaming, antique golden knob. The boy grabbed it open and pushed me in. “Good Luck Jake”.
The door slammed shut behind me, leaving me standing there, frantically twisting and pulling at the knob, only to find it stubbornly locked. Fuck.
Despite a few more desperate beats against the door, it remained closed. I leaned my head against the door, feeling its cool surface against my skin as I slid alongside it. I was losing my mind. This place was getting to me. Would this mirror really help me out, or would I sink deeper into this mess? Would writing really fix this? As I longed for home, a sudden glimmer caught my eye—a weathered silver mirror, beckoning me with its shimmer. To be honest, it was a beautiful sight - a silver frame adorned with what appeared to be delicate silver roses in each corner, perfectly reflecting my image. Looking at my defeated face, I could see the disappointment reflected in my eyes.
Was giving up on writing such a bad thing? My creative well ran dry, leaving me feeling fraudulent and incapable of producing anything remotely interesting. It may have been original, but it was full of cliches and dry metaphors. Clearly, writing wasn’t in the cards for me, but why was I still writing?

Click of a door unlocking

The door creak’s open, carefully my hand extend’s near the knob, relieved to find it in working condition. With a slow push, I open it, and as I step through, the darkness swallow’s me whole. As I enter, a heavy darkness engulfs me, leaving me feeling disoriented and uneasy.