The Writers Guild - I Can't Find The Right Words Chapter 6

 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

Inside the room, darkness consumed everything, leaving no trace of light. As I scanned the area, I realized that this space was completely unknown to me. The room gave off an empty vibe, and I could only distinguish the outline of a bed against the walls. It seemed like it was a guest room. In the dimly lit room, I could barely make out the familiar shapes of a bed, a dresser, and a dirty clothes hamper. Other than that, the room lacked any significant details, so then I examined the closet. It was completely empty. The pole hanging above had empty hangers, which were swaying ever so slightly. 
What was I supposed to do now? I thought for a second. I extended my hands towards the walls, running my fingers along their surface in search of a knob. It took me a few minutes to locate one. My hands reached the distinct shape of two rectangles, and as I continued to explore, I could feel the edges of a slit forming a door frame. I extended my arm even farther, feeling the icy coldness of the knob beneath my fingertips. It rotated. I peered my head outside and turned right, the heavy darkness swallowing everything in its path.
Perhaps whatever awaited inside could whisk me away to the next location or bring me one step closer to returning home; maybe I would stumble upon that boy once more. It’s possible that he has the answers I’m looking for about this world. He seemed quite knowledgeable when we were at the library. After waiting for a minute, I focused on the silence that filled the house. Not a single sound was audible, making it seem like reaching the light might be a safe option. Off I went, the soft glow of light beckoning me from just a few steps away. Carefully, I tiptoed through the hallway, mindful of every sound. The mesmerizing, well-lit room filled me with anticipation, as I yearned for answers or an escape. This whole scenario was taking a toll on me, my body feeling alien in this unfamiliar environment. The gravity of this planet had taken its toll on me. All around me were fake, exaggerated caricatures of the people I knew. Being chased by faceless fans, I relied on my agent and a younger version of myself for guidance. This whole thing sounded crazy but could make an interesting horror novel. Wait, I froze for a minute. The room, with its inviting glow, felt like a mirage as I hurried my steps, but the distance stayed in motion. Fuck, not again. My legs churned faster. Come on, quit fucking with me. The room felt suffocating, with the walls tightening around me, while the hallway stretched out endlessly, creating a disorienting sensation. As I moved away from the room, the glow from the lit room receded into the distance. This house was teasing me.
All my efforts went to waste, and to show for it was aching lungs and a body soaked in sweat. The air coming in and out of my mouth had blocked any type of English I could make out. As I fell down, my thoughts spilled out into the open. “Okay…what now? WHAT MORE DO YOU NEED FROM ME!!!”
What more did I need to do? How much more suffering did this world want from me?
In a sudden realization, I reflected on the bizarre nature of the world and how the concept of logic felt irrelevant. No matter how you looked at it, it would never make sense in a world like this. So why was I trying to force something like that? It would be better to play by its rules.
In response, I sprinted in the opposite direction. Not knowing what I could gain in this moment, but not letting this twisted hallway win its sick little game. I ran for what felt like thirty, no, forty feet until I finally reached the warmly lit room, deciding not to question how I got there and simply entering. Stepping into the child’s bedroom that was once my own at six or maybe seven, my mouth dropped by how much smaller it appeared now, giving the space a surreal quality. For a short period, I felt safe. The cream-colored walls were now adorned with my childhood drawings of superheroes and animals. How, how was I here? Again, I forgot logic didn’t exist here. I sat on my vintage race car bed, surrounded by my long-forgotten comic books. A very avid reader back then. A soft laugh slipped through my lips. As I glanced down, I noticed a cluster of Hot Wheels scattered near the ground. 
As a kid, I was sure that my future profession would include burning rubber and loud cheers. I always begged my family for anything that resembled a car. Whether it was the bed, covers, toys, etc. 
Then my gaze landed on a small plastic table across from me, and I made my way towards it. It didn’t dawn on me that writing had always been there. Even before I realized it, I had always loved writing. The infinite settings waiting to take shape felt endless to me. Tears filled my eyes as I picked up the page. I remember these stories. Old stories of me and my family becoming superheroes — god, this was goofy.
But it was fun and simple. When did writing become such a chore for me? When did the passion fade from my words? Maybe it can be this way again. If I ever make it back, maybe I can rediscover the joy it brings. These stories weren’t for anyone back then, not my family, friends or even the class back in high school. They were for me. Creating them was so much fun, and I was so impressed by how cool they turned out that I felt compelled to share them. That also goes for the book, but as soon as the pressure built up and expectations rose, I think I lost sight of that. As I placed the page down, my eyes gleamed with a spark of hope. Once I get back, I want to write. I want to craft a tale that will resonate with me.
It felt as though my shoulders had gotten lighter. At my feet, I noticed something familiar that had rolled towards me, almost escaping my glance. I picked up a ballpoint pen with a vibrant red cover. The object had an elegant appearance and appeared to be free of any visible fingerprints. Then four more rolled out from under the bed. When I cautiously approached the door, I encountered the familiar sound of a locked door clicking. Underneath the bed, a dozen more pens rolled out; their clattering echoed through the room. The closet emitted eerie moaning sounds as its door slowly stretched open. I knew this sequence all too well now. It was time for me to head to the next location, but instead of fear and panic, I was ready for it. As I stepped through the pens that had grown to ankle length, I reached out to grab the paper of my story. The door suddenly popped open, and the sound of clicking pens echoed throughout the room. I wasn’t afraid anymore. This time, I felt prepared to return and immerse myself in writing once more, if I made it back. For me this time. The many stacks of pens towered above me, reaching up to my neck. To my surprise, they felt lighter than I had expected. I closed my eyes, filled my lungs with a deep breath of air, squeezed the paper tightly, and dove under.