There’s this movie about a writer with writer’s block (Billy Crystal) whose only novel was stolen by his wife. He teaches some sort of Fiction Writing class, and his pupil (Danny DeVito) is trying to write a mystery novel but he can’t. Well, there are problems and stuff, and there’s the ending, and I don’t really want to talk about it except for the fact that the writer’s got writer’s block. I’ve got writer’s block. I know what this guy’s feeling because it’s what I’m always feeling… ever since I don’t know when. My last good story generated some controversy because I kinda attacked Dubuquers and their xenophobic racist society. Now I’m here. Back here. With my nice family. Lonely. Nothing to write about. My mom always said “Write your story (about Minori and myself).” But I can’t write it if it doesn’t have an ending yet. How could it have an ending if we’re so far but we’re not hating each other? I mean, we’re far but close, our story would have an ending if, at least, we had already found a way to be together…
I don’t know what I’m writing. The pleasure of letting my fingers find the right keys and getting letters, words, sentences out of that beautiful movement is all I get from this. I have no more stories to tell, but I wish I did. Maybe I wish I did because I haven’t been able to get the image of myself as a writer out of my mind. I’m supposed to be a writer. But a writer writes, and I do anything but that. Okay, I do, but I don’t write what I’m supposed to. What am I supposed to write?
Something, anything, at least for now.
I am a writer with writer’s block whose only novel lies within a shelf. I am a writer with writer’s block who could write a thousand stories on how she waits for the love that changed her life radically. A story on how…