Insert 'EggplantWitch' in place of Zelda, and 'stories' instead of 'poetry' and you get what I'm going through right now. This is why, Modacelimazing42, that I'm not going to be able to get a fic which I really wanted to write in before the deadline.
Zelda paced around her bedroom. This didn't usually happen to her. Usually, when she sat down to write, she had too many ideas for her to be able to use, all she needed to do was find a way of linking them up. But not today. In fact, for the past couple of days, it had been the same. She couldn't find inspiration in anything anymore.
Usually, she'd watch something funny or see something beautiful or unusual, and she'd take ideas from them, advance them over the day in her mind and when she sat down to write her poetry…well, that was what would happen. Usually.
This was writer's block like she'd never had it. Sure, she'd had it before, all artists did. She'd start writing something, maybe a page or two, but then get stuck. In those situations she'd get herself a drink and something to eat, maybe talk to a fellow poet like Marth for some ideas if she was really stuck. More often than not she'd leave it for a day and come back the next with many new, fresh ideas. She'd tried all of those, and still nothing.
What was she to do, when she couldn't do her favourite thing? To write? That was all she wanted to do! Yet she couldn't! Her muse had left her. There wasn't anything she could do to overcome this immense lack of ideas in her mind. Her well had run dry.
She watched a movie with her friends the next day. It was a good movie, the kind that, when it was finished, would leave her with so many ideas she'd have to lie down and sort them out. But…nothing. How could she still get nothing? She needed ideas!
They were having a poetry competition in the mansion at the moment, and she'd pledged herself to make an entry, even if she might get beaten down by Marth or some other great poet. But she couldn't write anything. She had a couple of ideas for poems, but they'd run dry after only a stanza or two.
This writer's block. Other writers never seemed to have it, or had it often in small amounts as she did. But what was happening to her? Was she ill? Was she concussed? Why did nothing come? Even when she tried so hard to find something, an image, a quote, a memory, anything, nothing came!
She laid her quill down next to the parchment she had been intending to write on. It seemed she would not be able to write for a long time.