As he drummed his fingers against his keyboard, trying to overcome his writers block, he thought about how writing used to be. It was something that just came, a hobby. There were no deadlines to meet, no expectations. He could write in any style that he wanted, say anything that he wanted, describe scenes of lush paradise one day and burning hell the next, and no one would care.
That all changed when he got an audience. At first he was elated; suddenly, droves of people were reading what he was writing, giving feedback, leaving comments. He was living the dream when he was contacted by a publisher, who had his stories, no, his book, published within the month. And as he got more popular, more people started analysing his work.
At first it was fun, seeing the different ways people were interpreting his writing. But as time went on, as his works were overanalyzed and underanalyzed, with no one getting it quite right, he felt like something was missing. He was changing. He had lost the freedom he enjoyed when he was simply writing to publish something. Now, he was restrained to the writing style that had gotten him famous, restrained to topics that the majority of the audience would like, restrained by his sense that writing was now a job, not a form of expression or an outlet of creativity.
He decided to make himself a cup of coffee, not that he needed it. It was just something to break the monotony of staring at a blank computer screen. As he listened to the coffee machine, he was struck by a sudden burst of inspiration. He ran back to the computer, not bothering to wait for the machine to finish.
What if he wrote just as he had all those years ago, as if he had no audience breathing down his neck? He didn't need to send the result to his publisher, it would be just for him. An indulgence. He created an account on a website, not bothering to put in a description or a profile picture. After all, he wasn't trying to attract attention.
The blank page felt liberating. He could do anything he wanted, write anything he wanted. There was no need to edit, no need to polish, no need to change or deviate from his original intent. It was complete freedom. He cracked his knuckles and began to type:
"As he drummed his fingers against his keyboard, trying to overcome his writers block, he thought about how writing used to be..."
