MidReal Story
Obsession Unleashed
Scenario: A prolific author gets into writer's block and stalk people to find something to write about. Things will be turne evil pretty soon.
Create my version of this story
More than a year ago, I wrote a book.
That book became a bestseller.
It was suddenly everywhere, including the New York Times Best Sellers list.
I was told it was going to be made into a movie.
The problem is, I haven’t been able to write anything since.
I’ve always been pretty prolific in my writing.
I didn’t have a personal life or relationships to get in the way of my creativity.
All that changed with the success of my book.
I’ve sat down at my computer every day for the past year and nothing comes out.
I’ve read every article and tried everything to get over my writer’s block.
I haven’t been able to produce a single page of writing since the day I hit send on that manuscript.
Sometimes I sit here for hours just staring at the blank page.
As more time passes, it gets harder and harder to come up with excuses for my editor.
I can feel myself starting to panic as I stare at the blank page on my screen.
The cursor flashes tauntingly, waiting for me to fill it with words.
I used to be so good at this.
I was an author who could turn out thousands of words in a day without breaking a sweat.
But I haven’t been able to write anything in over a year.
That’s 365 days and counting that I haven’t produced a single page of writing.
That day when I finished writing my last book was like any other day.
And then suddenly it wasn't.
I sent off the manuscript to my editor and went about my day, as if nothing had changed.
But everything had changed.
The next morning, my inbox was flooded with emails congratulating me on hitting the New York Times Best Sellers list.
My first though when I read those emails was that they must have gotten it wrong, because there was no way that could have happened to me.
And then when the accolades kept coming in, I realized that it wasn't a mistake after all.
That day was both the best and worst day of my life.
It was the culmination of everything I’d ever worked for.
It was the day I became a successful author, but it was also the day I lost all hope of ever being able to write again.
It happened so suddenly that I didn't have time to think about what came next.
The success of that book enabled me to pay off every penny of debt I had and start saving money for the future.
It paid off the mortgage on the house that belonged to my parents before they died and left it to me in their wills.
My parents had always believed in me and encouraged me to follow my dreams, even when I had doubts about myself.
It broke my heart that they died before they were able to see me become a successful author, like they’d always predicted I would be.
Since then, things have been pretty bleak, to say the least.
I’ve tried everything to get back on track, but nothing seems to work.
I’ve changed my diet and exercise routines, but that hasn’t helped either.
I’ve even changed my environment and moved to a different place, but that hasn’t made any difference either.
Every day is exactly the same as the one before it, and will be exactly like every day that comes after, until I figure out how to start writing again.
I set my alarm for seven o’clock this morning, but when it went off, I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed yet.
I just laid there and stared up at the ceiling until my phone rang with an incoming call and woke me up again around nine o'clock.
I answered without checking who it was first and mumbled out some sort of greeting, while trying to figure out what day of the week it is and how long I’d slept in.
It was my best friend Sarah calling me from work, asking if I wanted her to pick me up some coffee from Starbucks on her way over to my house this morning.
Sarah is one of two friends I have left after all these years, and she knows me better than anyone else ever has or ever will.
She knew exactly what I needed this morning, even though I hadn’t said a word about it to her.
A few minutes later, Sarah let herself into my house through the back door and went straight to my kitchen to make herself some coffee.
She’s used to letting herself in, since we’ve been best friends since we were kids growing up together in New York City, and she knows this house as well as I do, having spent so much time here with me over the years.
I told her she didn’t have to do that, but she just ignored me and made me a cup of coffee with extra cream and sugar, just like she always does, and brought it to me in bed.
I know Sarah’s just trying to take care of me because she loves me, but having her wait on me hand and foot like this every day just makes me feel like more of a failure than I already do.
I know she doesn't mean for it to come off that way, but that's how it feels.
I stayed in bed until almost noon today, because that’s pretty much what my life has come to now.
I don’t remember ever sleeping in past nine o’clock before all this happened to me.
But now, that’s all I can seem to do.
And then when I finally did get out of bed and sit down at my computer, I ended up spending most of the day scrolling through social media and watching Netflix instead of working on my book.
It’s been over a year now, but my writer’s block still hasn’t gone away, and every day seems to be getting a little worse instead of better.
If that’s even possible.
I’ve had writer’s block before, but never for this long.
I know a lot of writers go through this at some point in their careers, and that everyone deals with it differently, but nothing seems to be working for me.
I can’t seem to find a way out of this dark hole I’ve fallen into, and more and more often these days, I’m not sure if I want to.
I’ve been doing some pretty crazy things lately in my quest to find some inspiration for a new book idea, and now that Sarah is here at my house everyday making sure I’m okay, she’s starting to catch on to what’s happening to me.
Because she’s been over here so much lately, she knows how bad things have gotten for me.
She knows how little work I’ve been doing, and how long it’s been since I wrote anything new at all.
She knows what time of day I usually wake up, and how much coffee I drink every morning.
And she knows how bad it smells in my house because of all the dirty laundry piling up everywhere, and how many dirty dishes are in the sink.
She knows because she can see it with her own eyes.
And even though she’s never said anything about it, I know she must be worried about me.
Even if she doesn’t know exactly what the problem is, she can tell something is wrong.
I’ve never been a good liar, especially when it comes to Sarah.
But no matter how much she asks me what’s wrong, or how many times she tries to make me go see someone for help, I just can’t bring myself to tell her the truth about what’s really happening to me.
And so instead, Sarah waits on me like a servant every day, hoping she can somehow make whatever is happening to me go away by trying to take care of me.
But today, for the first time in a long time, I finally opened my mouth and spoke up when Sarah came into my bedroom carrying my coffee.
“Can you please stop doing that?”
I asked her, as nicely as I could manage.
Sarah looked at me like she was hurt by what I said, but then her face softened as she reached out her hand to help me out of bed.
“Come on Em,” she said sweetly, “I just want to take care of you.”
“I know you do,” I told her as I got out of bed, “but right now, I just need you to not treat me like a complete invalid.”
Sarah nodded her head in understanding and handed me my cup of coffee as we walked down the hall toward the kitchen together.
