TToW - Breaking the Block

Ghost Writer sat slumped in his seat for a long time, staring blankly at the surface of the table. Slowly he sat up, wincing as his back made its protests known before sluggishly moving over towards the counter where his now ice-cold coffee was.


He flicked the kettle on again and poured the coffee down the sink robotically, moving on autopilot because his mind was busy churning with all kinds of negative thoughts and emotions.


The click of the kettle and the sound of bubbling water prompted him to make another cup of coffee, and once that was finished he went back to the table where he pulled out a notebook and pen from his pocket.


Bending over the paper slightly, he wrote at the top ‘breaking the block’. Tapping the pen against his cheek thoughtfully, he proceeded to think of something that could help rid him of the evil block. A few thoughts came to him and he scribbled them down eagerly. One of them should be able to help me, he thought. But some of them may require me to go to Earth ... If it breaks the block, then it’s worth it!


He nodded, drained his cup of coffee and set off to begin his war against the block.


---


Ghost Writer settled down in his favourite armchair, immediately sinking into the squishy cushion. He looked over to the small end table beside him. Cup of coffee? Check. Huge pile of books? Check. Log fire? Check. He allowed himself a small smile before settling into his chair and taking The Hobbit off of the pile.


Many hours later saw him put The Return of the King down with an annoyed sigh. Yes, he’d managed to re-read some of his favourite books and that had cheered him up a little, but it still hadn’t broken the block. He glanced over at the remaining books. Of Mice and Men, Dracula, Frankenstein and others waited for him to read them, but if The Hobbit hadn’t worked then nothing in the world of literature would. Okay, that was probably over-exaggerating, but he didn’t really care. This was writer’s block and therefore was extremely serious, so he could over-exaggerate and be as dramatic as he pleased.


Sighing, he picked the books and his bookmark up (dog-earing the pages was an inexcusable crime in his eyes) and went to return them to their rightful places. He’d try again later maybe but … he yawned widely, he’d have to get some sleep first. Maybe he’d get some ideas from his dreams …


Eight hours later, Ghost Writer woke up feeling distinctly uninspired. The block was still in place and was showing no sign of letting up anytime soon. He sighed and felt around for his glasses, putting them on once they’d been located. Mumbling something about sledgehammers and smashing annoying blocks he turned over and-


THUMP!


-fell out of the bed, smacking his head against the bedside table in the process and prompting a rain of small objects to fall on him.


“Ouch!” he gasped as something particularly sharp glanced off of his temple. He waited for a couple of seconds, before warily opening his left eye and making sure no more objects were waiting to attack him. There wasn’t, so he sat up and looked around at the mess. A bit of blank paper and a pen (in case of story ideas in the middle of the night), a clock, a CD and several other small items were all scattered around.


He shuffled over to the CD, suddenly curious about it. Maybe it was calming music? Hopefully it was something like that. The small white font at the bottom of the cover read ‘Gustav Holst: The Planets Suite’. Ghost Writer’s eyes widened and he stood up, carrying the CD with him. If his memory was correct, then the music was good for thinking about different emotions, and that might break his writer’s block. With that thought in mind (along with a hopeful feeling), he went and rummaged around in the closet for his old CD player.


Well, at least this is easier to work than that computer was he thought as he simply plugged the stereo in and switched on the power. He pressed ‘play’, and then went to get ready.


---


So far, so good. The music had been helping Ghost Writer a lot - not only was he feeling calmer and happier, but faint images about his story were beginning to form in the back of his mind.


This all ended with the fourth track, which was Mars – The Bringer of War. A few seconds into the song, and Ghost Writer’s good mood was already starting to drop sharply into the ‘angry, irritated and generally frustrated’ category and the ideas were rapidly disappearing.


The music also rapidly disappeared when Ghost Writer put his foot straight through the CD player, effectively breaking both it and the CD and giving himself an electric shock. He pulled his foot back, looking extremely frazzled, and decided that maybe music wasn’t going to help him.


---


Once he had managed to remove the frazzled look from his face and stopped his hair smoking slightly, he stumbled into the kitchen and snatched up the notepad with his list of solutions written on it. He scribbled out the word ‘music’ with a bit too much force, breaking through the paper. He then calmly crossed out read, but did write a note to maybe try it again later.


He consulted the list, searching for his next potential saviour.


“Go out somewhere.” He read aloud. Well that was a bit vague. He tapped his chin thoughtfully, wondering where that ‘somewhere’ could be.


It needs to be a place that I wouldn’t usually go to – so I’d need to go to Earth, then … there isn’t much to do in this part of the Ghost Zone. He got up and went to prepare for a trip into the human world.


---


Ghost Writer grinned happily. He was currently standing on the edge of a busy pavement (intangible and invisible, so he didn’t get pushed onto the equally busy road in front of him) looking at the cream-coloured building on the other side of the street. Lights lit the front, the double doors were wide open and welcoming and there were lots of posters covering the walls.


It was a theatre and, when Ghost Writer floated across and looked at several of the colourful posters, he saw that there were a few plays lined up for the year – Romeo and Juliet, Grease and the Phantom of the Opera being shown that month. There were really only two options for Ghost Writer out of the three.


Hmm … Shakespeare or Leroux; that is the question.


He mentally debated for a few minutes. He knew both books well and enjoyed them both, but he had read the Phantom of the Opera recently. He brightened up. Maybe if he saw the book acted out – brought to life - it would give him an idea? It was possible.


The Phantom of the Opera it is then.


---


Ghost Writer happily settled himself in the worn red chair, putting his drink and bag of toffees to one side. This was why he liked being a ghost sometimes – no need to pay for food, drinks or seats and no waiting in long lines.


He glanced around his surroundings. There were a few people milling around, finding seats and chatting with one another. He hummed to himself quietly, watching them out of the corner of his eye. As long as no-one sat too close to him he’d be fine; he hated people getting too close to him. It made him jumpy and nervous, and he did not like that.


As for the theatre itself … it certainly looked like it had seen better days. There were cobwebs hanging off of columns and lights, and if he made the slightest movement a small mushroom cloud of dust erupted from the chair. The curtains were made of what would once have been crimson velvet, but were now faded and scruffy. Plus they were covered in marks from what looked like drinks and food that had been thrown at the stage. But Ghost Writer was willing to give it a chance. The saying was ‘never judge a book by its cover’, so maybe the performance would be fantastic and the marks made by people throwing their things in happiness. His thinking was cut short by the doors shutting and the curtains drawing back, squeaking annoyingly as they did so.


---


Why does nothing ever seem to go right? He wailed in his thoughts half an hour later. He was currently crouched down on the floor, shielding himself between chairs as milkshakes, ice cream, chocolates and many other types of food soared through the air to land with wet splats on the wooden stage.


One of the theatre staff bravely ran up and stood in the middle of the stage. “Ladies, gentlemen, please refrain from throwing food and drink during the performance!” he cried.


He was quickly chased off of the stage by a barrage of Malteasers.


Ghost Writer risked peeking above the seat. Seeing no deadly bullets of chocolate speeding towards him, he glanced around at the chaos surrounding him. There were pieces of chocolate and toffee and popcorn flying through the air, ricocheting off of chairs and unfortunate people's heads; drinks flew through the air gracelessly, spilling their contents over the carpet, chairs and some of the audience. Something whooshed over his head and he was treated to a milkshake shower.

He decided that now was the time to make his escape, but there were quite a few people near him. They would see if he turned invisible, and if something went through him when he was intangible they wouldn’t be able to ignore that.


As discreetly as possible (so he didn’t look like an actor or member of staff trying to escape and so incur the wrath of the audience) he began to wriggle his way through the labyrinth of chair legs, dodging the puddles of drink gathered on the floor.


A few minutes later he had reached a corner in the hall, and satisfied that no-one could see him he turned invisible and intangible. He floated up to get a good look at the chaos that still reigned.

The cobwebs on the lights and columns had been dislodged by the projectiles, and the curtains were even scruffier than they were to begin with as they were covered with fresh food and drink marks mixed in with the old ones.

As he watched he noticed a couple of people storm out, only to return a minute later with armfuls of fresh ammunition and begin to once again throw it all over the place, then at an actor who had poked his head out from behind the curtain. Ghost Writer allowed himself a small chuckle as he floated out of the theatre, mentally vowing to never return.


---


Once he had gotten home and cleaned himself of all the food and dust that had found it’s way onto him during his crawl through the chairs, he sat down at the kitchen table again and pulled the notepad towards him. He crossed out theatre, and also noted to avoid the one he had just visited.


He stared blankly at the remaining items on the list. Play a video game (so he’d have to go to an arcade somewhere), go shopping or go to a sports match. None of them appealed to him at the present moment, but he wanted to break the block so desperately he was willing to try them even if he didn’t want to. As he thought about it, he scribbled randomly in the corner of the page.


After ten minutes of getting nowhere, he got up and went to get some coffee. While he was making it, he still couldn’t decide what choice to make – he didn’t want to go to an arcade (Technus might be there and the apron was still burned into his mind), shopping didn’t appeal to him and there was no way he was going to a sports match – knowing his luck he’d go to a Packers match and end up near Vlad, who he didn’t want to see again in a hurry.


He sat back down and looked at his paper, then nearly fell off the chair when he laid eyes on his random scribbles. He scrambled back up so he could have another look. What he’d drawn was certainly not a masterpiece; it was a few stick figures and some dodgy backgrounds, but it had caused a sledgehammer of inspiration to smack him straight between the eyes.


He took off for his study immediately, leaving his coffee behind. He had inspiration now and nothing else mattered.