Ram Vignesh's Blog

‘Does writer’s block exist?’ asked Caroline.  She was a major in English literature and an aspiring writer. For more than three years she had been trying to finish her debut novel. Each week, she wrote a chapter and rewrote the same for at least another couple of weeks until she figured a way to proceed further. Her novel was about a single woman in her mid-forties trying to start her own million dollar company.

After finishing ten chapters, she ceased.  She couldn’t write a word. It was writer’s block, she reasoned. She spent time wandering for inspiration.  One such wanderings ended her in the third row of the book launch of a famous authoress, Agatha Archer. The woman was not more than forty-five and had published thirty murder mysteries in a decade. Agatha averaged three books per year which was more than a miracle for Caroline.

‘Does writer’s block exist?’ asked Caroline in the Q&A session of Agatha’s book launch.

‘Yes,’ replied Agatha. ‘Writer’s block is a condition that occurs to the ones who aren’t supposed to be writers,’ she added with a smile.

Caroline’s block faded as she returned Agatha’s smile.

The room was dark. There stood two men facing each other, one smoking and the other fretting.

‘Who should be killed?’ asked Mike masking his guilt.

‘This time, I don’t want you to kill. I will do the deed myself,’ said the Don. He took out a gun from his jacket and continued smoking his Cuban cigar.

‘Why?’ asked Mike.

‘Because if you kill that man, it would be suicide,’ the Don replied.

Mike knew the rest. He closed his eyes when the Don decorated the wall behind Mike with brain and blood.

‘Betrayal never goes unpunished,’ muttered the Don.

It was a dreary night in 1948. A person was walking through the streets of London. On the first turn, there was an accident. A young couple was hit by a car. They were lying on street upon a pool of their own blood, the person walked past them. On the next, a corrupt policeman was taking bribe from a poor man, the person never cared. Along the street, there were two men raping a teenage girl, the person never offered help. There isn’t much difference between us and that person. Perhaps, there was only one. That person was blind.