He sat at his desk, discarded notebooks tossed with disgust at his feet.
He tore the latest page from the latest book. Screwed it up and hurled it at the window. Watched it fall limply to the floor.
He was sick of inane platitudes.
“Just a bit of writer’s block.”
“An idea will come when you least expect it.”
“Write what you know!”
He picked up the block of wood from his desk and brought it down on to his fingers again and again until he saw stars.
Picked up his dictaphone. Used the pain to finally find his words.
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