Writer’s Block. Again. The longest it’s ever been. The blank screen stares at me with indifference. The text cursor winks smugly. Frustration boils and I squeeze my hands to ease it. I focus on the rain patter on the window to ease my mind.

A knock at the door. “Hello!?,” someone shouts from the other side, “Anybody home? The storm knocked down a tree in the road. I could use some help.” I can’t help but grin to myself. Folks have a habit of getting lost up through this neck of the woods. Far travelers have the worst luck of it.

I hurry over to the door and swing it open. With a quick introduction, I allow the stranger in. His name is Jordan, he’s from SoCal and is on a Cross-Country roadtrip in between semesters. The storm snuck up on him of course.

“So you live all the way out here alone?”, Jordan says. “Yes, I get frequent visitors though, like yourself.” I reply, “I don’t mind the solitude, the quiet helps me write.” We get into talking about my career, Jordan recognizes a few of my titles, though he admits he’s not much of a reader.

“You must be well off though, what’re you doing all the way out here?” He asks. “I suppose I’m a bit of a misanthrope.” I chuckle. “But where’s do you get your inspiration?” “You, of course. People like you too. Like I said, frequent visitors.”

I catch myself grinning again and think of that smug text cursor. The wink was one between two old friends with an inside joke. Writer’s block, how stupid. I laugh to myself. Jordan seems a little uneasy about being outside of the joke.

“So, what was your genre again?”

“Horror.”

“Horror, right. You must have a vivid imagination then, right?”

“Right.” I give him a wink.

Personal experience, my well of inspiration. The forlorn traveler, my muse.

I write horror. Rooted in the unknown. Like how no one knows what will happen to Jordan. Like how Jordan doesn’t know what happened to my past visitors. How Jordan doesn’t know that tree was laid out purposefully across the road. My writer’s block. I chuckle again.