Tag: writer’s life

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The Panda Eats, Shoots and Leaves.

panda-eats-shoots-and-leaves

The panda sat silently at the bar, pawing at a bowl of salted nuts. The only other patron looking on with a cocked head and raised brow. I don’t think he had seen a panda sat in a human environment before. I sighed. I knew what was coming. The panda comes in here about once a month and eats all my bar nuts. He doesn’t seem to like the gawkers. So, it’s a good thing my bar is always empty. Makes clean-up easier and leaves little explaining to be done.

The panda stands up, shoots the patron right in his stupid looking expression. My face scrunches up into a ball, my muscles solidify. I hold my breath every time. The panda walks out. It’s closing time, anyway. Better get cleaning.

 

 

Prompt – Facebook post by Sergio Pimenov from a closed writing group (so I can’t link to the post)

Punctuation matters!
Panda eats, shoots and leaves.

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Dear Writer’s Block

Dear Writer’s Block,

It’s not you, it’s me. I just can’t go on living like this. And I should start being honest with myself. I know you help me get things done, especially around the house. You’re brilliant at helping with the dishes and the vacuuming. My house is always dust free and the lawn is never too long, and that’s all because of you. You’ve helped me learn how to cook exotic cuisines and bake bizarre pastries. You make sure I’m always up to date with the latest and greatest news the world serves up on social media.

But, please, stahp. No more should you insistently refresh /r/all. And I can’t always play video games with you. Your lust for attention is insatiable and, as an icon of our generation once said in front of a green screen, “it’s time to stop!” Stop blindly scrolling the twitterfeed. Stop tentatively trawling YouTube. Stop shouting in my ear, breaking my train of thought. Stop changing the song. Stop constantly giving me new ideas that are better than my current story and stop making me start new stories before I finish the last. Stop telling me what I should have achieved by now, and stop fucking telling me I won’t amount to anything. Stop trying to convince me no one will ever read anything I write and, for the love of Poe, stop exclaiming that I am worthless.

Just get out. Get out of my head and cut out all of the “what if” conundrums. Get out of my head, get out of my house and get out of my life, please and kindly.

You’ll have to find your own way now, and I need to find my Writer’s Feet again. I know you know where they are. But, given the circumstances, I feel it is unlikely you will tell me the location of their grave. I will find them and I will find my stride again. You can do whatever you bloody well please, far away from here.

You’ll see. You will, because I’ll show you. I’ll show ‘em all. I’ll write until my pen runs out of ink and then I’ll buy a new pen. The letters will fade from my keyboard, but you know what? I know QWERTY, bitch, so it doesn’t matter. I’ll write and it doesn’t matter if not one person reads it or if not one person likes it or if it never amounts to anything. Because, damn it, I know what I’m worth and that’s what counts. Damn it all, and damn you, Writer’s Block.

I do wish you all the best in any future endeavours, but don’t be asking me for any references. I’ll be glad to see your tail. I don’t even expect a response from this, just to find the absence of you upon my return home.

Sincerely yours,

SalmonSlammin.

 

 

P.S.  leave the ice cream. I’m going to need it when I’m watching movies at midnight.

 

 

Prompt: Dear Writer’s Block. It’s not you, it’s me…