A piece of paper, full of endless possibilities, and for her endless frustration.
She glared down at its vast emptiness, as if it were the source of all her problems. It simply stared back, mocking her, as if daring her to write the thoughts and ideas that it knew were not there. She felt a need to write, a longing that ran deep...but nothing was coming. It wasn’t the paper’s fault, it wasn’t her pen’s either. Nope, it was her own self that held back her writing. The plot possibilities ran through her head, many times starting them, but running out of idea where to take them. She leaned back in her chair, rubbing her hand over her face, trying to wipe away the exhaustion She felt like slamming her head into the hard oak in front of her, but doubted even that would unclog the block that held a grip on her creativity. But all that would accomplish would be giving her a huge headache. From the time she had been sitting there, her right leg had fallen asleep. She stood up, pacing the hardwood floors until the pins and needles subsided. While she was up she figured she’d make herself a cup of tea, to soothe her nerves, and maybe something to eat.
She walked the short way from her study to her cramped little kitchen. The tiles were cracked, and some of the cabinets didn’t have doors, but it was functional. She took the whistling tea kettle, her most loved and used kitchen gadget; over to the small sink and dumped out the water from yesterday, filling it once again with fresher. She placed it on the stovetop, and turned the little white knob until it pointed to the 9, and the burner glowed with heat. As she waited for it to boil, she pulled out her favorite mug, large and green that had been a gift from her college roommate. Then she searched for something to keep her gnawing hunger under control. Her cabinets were almost empty, but she managed to dig up an old box of macaroni, a can of condensed soup, and a half full box of lemon Girl Scout cookies.
The quickest and least objectionable option would be the cookies, so she decided on those. Pulling out a small plate, she dumped six cookies onto it, leaving around six more for another time. She could hear the water beginning to heat up, so she pulled down a large basket filled with boxes of all sorts off green, herbal, and chai teas. Selecting one of her favorites a raspberry blend, she placed it back in its spot atop the fridge. Looking around for something for something sweet, she spotted the little amber honey bear nestled between the flour bin, and some napkins.
The kettle soon began to whistle and shriek. In one fluid movement she turned, grabbed the honey, pulled the kettle away from the heat, silencing the noise almost instantly, and poured the steaming water into the waiting mug. She watched as the herbs began bleeding into the water until it turned the whole thing a deep red. Fixing it so it was sweet, but still maintained its flavor; she balanced the plate on the cup, and made her way back to the study.
She found that in her absence her cat Nero, had found a new sunning spot, his thin brown striped tail flicking back and forth over the empty page. His eyes were closed, and he was wearing that content smirk that cats often do wear. She smiled down at him, putting the things on the other end of the desk so as not to get cat hair in them, and rubbed his ears. Opening his eyes ever so slowly, he mewed quietly, and pushed his head harder into her hand, demanding that she pet him more. They sat like that for a while, until she had polished off everything she had brought with her, and Nero had grown bored, swaggering off to find a piece of string to stalk and kill.
So, she had nothing to do but sit and stare at the paper on her desk. Letting her mind wander, she thought about possible stories of murders, or love, or sex and drugs, none of them inspiring her to write. She thought back to her first creative writing class in high school. “Write what you know” Had been the teacher’s number one advice “Capture the feeling of the character with your own, how is your character supposed to know how to feel, if you don’t.”
“Write what you know,” she muttered to herself.
She picked up her pen, putting it to the top of the page and wrote. The ink flowing quickly, filling the paper with letters and words. She didn’t stop, the inspiration keeping her writing until she felt she was finished. She felt satisfied, her need to write quenched, and the grip that had been in place for months, holding her creativity hostage was weakened. She looked down at the pages, now full, and read the first line she had written... “A piece of paper....”
Note-This is the first thing I've written in months that I've finished. It's not at all my best work, but I'm just getting back into the groove of writing. Feel free to rip it.
~Hope
I would make some changes to this -- ease up on the heavy description, because it's tough to chew through, dear. See, look here: 
