Every Thursday we face a challenge to tell a story in three minutes. We know not all of them will be winners, but it’s a great opportunity to grow as writers and push the envelope of creativity. We hope you’ll be inspired to do something similar.
Evan Barclay sat down for the tenth time that day. His laptop computer was open and he had a tall glass of Whiskey poured. He didn’t really believe in the finger measuring method. He pretty much just poured until he felt like he could manage the glass. He would likely just refill it when it was emptied anyway.
For months this had been his practice. Sit down. Attempt to write. Get drunk instead. He started off buying the good stuff—top shelf kind of stuff. But now, as the advance from his publisher got thin, he couldn’t afford the good stuff. He took a swig. It burned. That sweet aroma that he’d grown to love from his previous bottles was no longer there. Bitterness. Just like the cold outside. There was nothing worse than trying to finish a novel in the dead of winter. January depression is only magnified by the inability to write.
He had heard of writer’s block. This wasn’t just a block, this was a sinkhole in the middle of a highway. There was no getting past it.