The writer’s block
Penelope grew up listening to her father read out a story to her every night before she went to bed. She grew up into becoming an avid reader, but she still preferred to hear her father’s warm baritone, laced with his vividly expressive intonations that went far beyond words in adding meaning to the stories.
While she was still in her early teens, her father passed away in a tragic accident. She had trouble sleeping at night ever since, often wondering if she missed her father or his stories more. In school, she befriended Ben. Not for his looks, but for his penchant for writing and telling stories. Penelope found Ben’s stories refreshingly imaginative, reminding her of her father.
Penny and Benny, as they’d lovingly call each other, formed an inseparable bond. They’d talk for hours on the phone, especially at night when Ben would read out a story to her before she’d slip into a tranquil calm, sleeping like a baby. She became addicted to Ben’s storytelling and found it hard to sleep without hearing from him.
They went to college together, studying literature. Soon, after graduating, they moved in together and Ben took to writing short stories. They continued their nightly regime where Ben would read out a new story to her while Penny would dotingly listen to him and fall asleep on his chest.
It was like a match made in heaven. Ben needed a listener and a critique, and the way Penny fell asleep served as the litmus test of how good his stories were. He decided to further his studies in creative writing and joined a master’s program in a distant city. Penny was distraught at the idea of his moving away, but she let him leave at the prospect of listening to ever more interesting stories. They’d still call each other and talk for hours, and the nightly storytelling regimen continued until Penny would fall asleep.
One day, Ben got busy with his assignments and cut his call short without reading her a story. This continued for a few days. Penny couldn’t sleep for three nights in a row. With Penny irritably deprived of sleep, and Ben inundated with a heap of assignments, they had a row and stopped talking to each other.
Penny had trouble sleeping despite experimenting with a variety of sedatives and tranquilizers. She recalled another friend from high school who’d try to woo her with his stories. Reluctantly, she called him and the two met each other after many years. Soon after, she started calling him at night to listen to his stories. But she continued to have trouble sleeping — he was just a dabbler trying to impress her with his mediocrely weaved words.
A few months had passed away. Ben had graduated from his program and had taken up a new assignment in a publishing house. He knew that Penny was listening to someone else. Penny called him, and in a contrite tone, told him how sleep-deprived she was. She told him that she’d stopped listening to this other guy and how boring his stories were. She begged of him to return. But Ben was now working as an editor, critiquing and collating stories of other authors. He’d sworn to stop writing stories of his own.
“What do you think? That’s the rough outline that I intend to expound upon. I reckon it has a wonderful ending. Say something, will you?” he exhorted her to respond, impatiently.
“No! I hate it. It’s too close to our story,” she quipped.
“Hey, but doesn’t fiction take cues from reality? What is it that you don’t like in there?” he asked with shrugged shoulders.
“I hate the part where Penny leaves Ben for someone else. Do you really think I could do that? Are you trying to tell me something? Are you afraid that I’d leave you?” she coyly asked, with moist eyes.
“Umm… well, I’m just afraid that I’d run out of ideas for my stories.”
[Another experiment from an exercise in Philip John’s wonderful course on creative writing.]
