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Entry tags:
Writers’ Block
[LotR cast] [Viggo/Orlando] [PG]
Writers' Block
Author’s Note: Written because I was on a really bad spell – I can’t seem to write anything, even though I’m dying to.
Sometimes, brooding in front of an open notebook, clean as snow, staring blankly at the pen in your hand, you wonder if you’ve lost it all. You wonder if you’ve lost the ability to scribble rows and rows of words, eloquent in your diction, to make up for that lost in speech. You wonder if you’ve lost the skill of changing every mild emotion into something wild, alive and dancing in vivid swirls of poetry and language. You wonder if you’ve lost that flair for finding beauty in everything that met your eye, the one talent you always believed you had, and, by the flow of ink, transform it into something others could understand, and appreciate, as well.
You glance up, running a hair through your hair, sighing. Days like these used to be extremely conducive for writing. You would sit by the window, admiring the scenery, writing material in your hands, ready to scrawl down any and everything that appeared in your head. Ready to manipulate it into something coherent, something beautiful.
But today is different somehow. It’s quiet, as always, and the vista is breathtaking, as it often is in the high mountains of New Zealand. And yet, something’s lacking. There is no vibrancy in the atmosphere, no movement, nothing. It feels… empty, almost, and you can’t quite understand that gnawing pressure in the pit of your stomach.
You look back down at the blank paper in your hands, willing the words to come, as naturally and as easily as they often do. But nothing appears. And when you turn your head to glimpse at the clock, it’s been an hour and still, you can’t come up with anything.
You could laugh it off, you know that. But you don’t. If it had been at any other time that you encountered writers’ block, you would have left it aside, and let cobwebs clog your writing skills till you felt that refreshing breeze clearing the dust collected, and sat to pen down your thoughts again. But this is different. This time it’s important, it’s absolutely *crucial* that you manage to write something. You’ve never had writers’ block for more than a month before. And the past four months have terrified you more than you’d like to admit.
You jot a few words down. One, and then two; before scratching them violently away, covering them in splotches, in angry lines of blue ink. You stop yourself, beginning to twirl the pen in your fingers instead, trying to soothe the aching urge to start bouncing your legs up and down.
You’re about ready to give up, forty minutes later. You’re not going to get your muse back today. It’s gone on a long, and maybe permanent, vacation, and you have no idea when or how to get it back. You stand, stretching a little, because your muscles are aching from sitting still too long and you’re aging, as Orlando often jokes. And even though you knock him playfully over the head every time he says it, you can’t help believing it a little when your bones creak.
Then, a flash of laughing brown eyes imprints itself in your mind. And you know it’s strange, because a flash can’t be imprinted, because it’s a *flash*, for Christ’s sake, but it’s engraved now, and every time you close your eyes, you almost hear the laughter that accompanies the familiar shade of warm chocolate.
You sit quickly, and bring your pen to the paper again. And this time you manage three sentences before running out of words to use. You know it’s an achievement, because the warm chocolate has faded to light hazel now, and the laughter is a mere tinkle of sound in the distance.
You read through what you’ve just written, frowning. It doesn’t make sense, you decide finally, ripping it unmercifully out of the book, crumpling it into a ball and throwing it into the wastebasket.
You force yourself to relax, because it would be stupid, and very immature, if you started to throw a tantrum over writers’ block. Orlando would have a field day.
And just as you reach to put the book down, still open, on the table, a silhouette catches your eye, and you whip your head around, a smile flirting with the edges of your lips as you realize who it is.
“Viggo!”
You smile now, really smile, because the way he says your name is so full of laughter, of joy and excitement and youth, that you’re ready to stand and spin him giddily around the room.
You don’t even answer, because suddenly ideas are gushing through your head in torrents, and you know you have to put them down in ink before they disappear like the chocolate eyes and laughter you heard in your head; and you know he won’t mind, because he’s Orlando, and he understands you, and what you’re doing, and why.
As he comes into the room and wraps his arms around you, he presses soft kisses against the back of your neck, never once trying to read your work over your shoulder, knowing that you’re going to show it to him later anyway, knowing that you want to keep your work your own until you’re fully satisfied with it, until you’re sure that it’s as perfect as you imagined it to be.
You lean into his warmth, feeling his lips curve into a smile against your neck, and you smile widens, too, because his actions – all this, being with him like this – seems to fuel the ideas already raging in your head. Because this is comfort.
Because this is beauty.
Because this is inspiration.
-fin-
Writers' Block
Author’s Note: Written because I was on a really bad spell – I can’t seem to write anything, even though I’m dying to.
Sometimes, brooding in front of an open notebook, clean as snow, staring blankly at the pen in your hand, you wonder if you’ve lost it all. You wonder if you’ve lost the ability to scribble rows and rows of words, eloquent in your diction, to make up for that lost in speech. You wonder if you’ve lost the skill of changing every mild emotion into something wild, alive and dancing in vivid swirls of poetry and language. You wonder if you’ve lost that flair for finding beauty in everything that met your eye, the one talent you always believed you had, and, by the flow of ink, transform it into something others could understand, and appreciate, as well.
You glance up, running a hair through your hair, sighing. Days like these used to be extremely conducive for writing. You would sit by the window, admiring the scenery, writing material in your hands, ready to scrawl down any and everything that appeared in your head. Ready to manipulate it into something coherent, something beautiful.
But today is different somehow. It’s quiet, as always, and the vista is breathtaking, as it often is in the high mountains of New Zealand. And yet, something’s lacking. There is no vibrancy in the atmosphere, no movement, nothing. It feels… empty, almost, and you can’t quite understand that gnawing pressure in the pit of your stomach.
You look back down at the blank paper in your hands, willing the words to come, as naturally and as easily as they often do. But nothing appears. And when you turn your head to glimpse at the clock, it’s been an hour and still, you can’t come up with anything.
You could laugh it off, you know that. But you don’t. If it had been at any other time that you encountered writers’ block, you would have left it aside, and let cobwebs clog your writing skills till you felt that refreshing breeze clearing the dust collected, and sat to pen down your thoughts again. But this is different. This time it’s important, it’s absolutely *crucial* that you manage to write something. You’ve never had writers’ block for more than a month before. And the past four months have terrified you more than you’d like to admit.
You jot a few words down. One, and then two; before scratching them violently away, covering them in splotches, in angry lines of blue ink. You stop yourself, beginning to twirl the pen in your fingers instead, trying to soothe the aching urge to start bouncing your legs up and down.
You’re about ready to give up, forty minutes later. You’re not going to get your muse back today. It’s gone on a long, and maybe permanent, vacation, and you have no idea when or how to get it back. You stand, stretching a little, because your muscles are aching from sitting still too long and you’re aging, as Orlando often jokes. And even though you knock him playfully over the head every time he says it, you can’t help believing it a little when your bones creak.
Then, a flash of laughing brown eyes imprints itself in your mind. And you know it’s strange, because a flash can’t be imprinted, because it’s a *flash*, for Christ’s sake, but it’s engraved now, and every time you close your eyes, you almost hear the laughter that accompanies the familiar shade of warm chocolate.
You sit quickly, and bring your pen to the paper again. And this time you manage three sentences before running out of words to use. You know it’s an achievement, because the warm chocolate has faded to light hazel now, and the laughter is a mere tinkle of sound in the distance.
You read through what you’ve just written, frowning. It doesn’t make sense, you decide finally, ripping it unmercifully out of the book, crumpling it into a ball and throwing it into the wastebasket.
You force yourself to relax, because it would be stupid, and very immature, if you started to throw a tantrum over writers’ block. Orlando would have a field day.
And just as you reach to put the book down, still open, on the table, a silhouette catches your eye, and you whip your head around, a smile flirting with the edges of your lips as you realize who it is.
“Viggo!”
You smile now, really smile, because the way he says your name is so full of laughter, of joy and excitement and youth, that you’re ready to stand and spin him giddily around the room.
You don’t even answer, because suddenly ideas are gushing through your head in torrents, and you know you have to put them down in ink before they disappear like the chocolate eyes and laughter you heard in your head; and you know he won’t mind, because he’s Orlando, and he understands you, and what you’re doing, and why.
As he comes into the room and wraps his arms around you, he presses soft kisses against the back of your neck, never once trying to read your work over your shoulder, knowing that you’re going to show it to him later anyway, knowing that you want to keep your work your own until you’re fully satisfied with it, until you’re sure that it’s as perfect as you imagined it to be.
You lean into his warmth, feeling his lips curve into a smile against your neck, and you smile widens, too, because his actions – all this, being with him like this – seems to fuel the ideas already raging in your head. Because this is comfort.
Because this is beauty.
Because this is inspiration.
-fin-