Writer's Block

Acme sat at his desk, a blank page open on his laptop. He stared across the room and out the window, watching the cars zoom north and south on I-5.

He imagined all the stories he could write.

Or not.

He couldn't come up with a single story that sounded even the least bit interesting to him.

Ten minutes passed.

Then another ten.

After another ten minutes he finally stood up, walked around his desk, and then lay down on the floor, eyes closed.

What am I doing? Why did I challenge myself to write a story every day? Do I really even want to write? he thought, rubbing his forehead.

"You can do it, Acme. Don't give up," I, the narrator of this story, spoke to Acme encouragingly. He probably just needed a positive nudge in the right direction.

Acme bolted upright, looking around quickly to see who had spoken before remembering that he had a super-duper-helpful narrator who was willing to break the fifth wall and the Narrator-Subject Non-Interaction Act of 80085 to help him any time he needed it!

"Great, just when I thought I'd stopped hearing disembodied voices, there you are," Acme said, looking up toward the ceiling.

"Would it help if I materialized a form for myself when communicating with you?" I generated a glowing orb of brilliant blue light, the size of a marble, floating near the ceiling where Acme was looking. "Like this?" My glow pulsed brightly with each spoken word.

"Hey! That's Kosmo from my Fern story!" Acme's eyes widened, a twinkle of wonder in them. "Are you . . . real?"

I zipped down closer to Acme, hovering a couple feet in front of his face. "I'm as real as you are, Acme, which, I'm sorry to say, isn't completely 100% real. We are both fabrications of the real Acme's imagination. So, to the extent that we have, through words, been brought to life, we are real, but to say that we are real in a physical sense would be untrue."

"I'm not real . . ." Acme muttered, looking down at his hands.

"Oh, you poor approximation of the real Acme. Try to look at the bright side. Yes, you are not real, but neither are your problems! How can you have writer's block if you don't even exist!"

"You're right. And if I'm not real, then I can do whatever I want without consequence." Acme's eyes narrowed. "And if you manifested yourself as a real Kosmo here, then you can do what Kosmo from my Fern story can do."

"What does Kosmo d—"

In a single motion, Acme reached forward, grabbed me from midair, and threw me into his mouth. He swallowed and, as I traveled down his throat toward his core, I could only think one word.

Crap.

Acme's dark brown eyes lit up as blue radiance shone from within.

The sun. The solar system. Galaxies upon galaxies, each one full of stories. He could see it all.

He stretched his body upward and lifted off the ground, hovering in the middle of the room. He looked at his hands and clenched them, feeling . . .

Creation.

I know exactly what to write.

Acme floated back to his chair and settled into it without a sound. He would write about the day he got his powers.