Grace sat at her computer, the blank screen staring up at her. She sighed, and began playing with the pen on her desk, rolling it up and down and doodlling on a piece of paper she had ripped out of her diary.
Grace had experienced days like this. The days where no inspiration came to her and she spent hours upon hours just staring at a blank computer screen.
This was the reason her parents didn't want Grace to become a writer. 'You'll waste away in front of that computer,' they said when Grace told them. Grace had never believed them, until now.
inally, Grace placed her fingers on the keyboard and started typing. She typed for 20 minutes, and then read over what she had written. It was horrible, a poem about a killer computer. Grace was disgusted with herself for writing something so stupid.
Grace stood up. She wrapped her coat around herself and ventured out of her flat, for inspiration. Everywhere she looked, Grace thouight of a hundred new ideas. Smiling, she sat on a park bench and began to write in her little notebook. After writing a page, Grace looked over the words. It was horrible, a short piece about the mind of an ant. She tore out the piece of paper and scrunched it up.
'Maybe I'm not meant to be a writer,' she thought in the end. The breeze nipped at her as she walked back to her flat. She sat down in front of the computer and began to write. She wrote for a long time, and then read over her work, smiling.
Writers block. Can it get any worse? Is there a medication for writers block? I have experienced many days where whenever I put something down on paper, it sound horrible. But don't chuck out that poem about the killer computers, or that piece about the mind of an ant. You never know, they could become inspiration for the most amazing composition ever written...

