Writer's block-- what a tragedy

Coming from a writer's perspective. 

Do I have what it takes? Writing articles vs. writing story. 

Writing articles for a newspaper or a magazine isn't about inspiration. You have an assignment. You must make it clear enough to where an 8th grader can understand, and it is cut and dry depending on the publication. Writing story is about inspiration but about the ability to tap into a character and story as it is your own life. It is extremely emotional and when your story dies, it is as if the writer dies as well. 

I often times wonder if I have what it takes, the fall and triumph of character development. The story that I'm creating becomes truth in some way or another. The emotional rollercoaster, oy vey. 

It is something I love, and self-motivating myself is a task. So here starts my motivation, all inclusive with an exert:

I lie there and let him kiss my forehead, then my cheek. Nothing else.

           

…And all she wants is this to be true and all she needs is something better.            

“You should stay away from me,” he says.

            “Should I leave then,” I ask.

            “No.”

I look at him, my eyes straight intro his.

            “Should I leave if I’m requested to stay away from you,” I ask again.

            “No, I care about you.”

He pauses.

           

            “I care about you too much to let anything happen,” he says.

As he grabs her and hols her closer. He gives more details to why he is bad and asks about her purity. “I am pure,” she says, confidentally.

            “All the more reason to stay away,” he says.

His promiscuity has worn on him. He is broken for it. He continues to be broken.

           

            “I hold your purity with high standard,” I say.

            “Thank you.”

… and he held me hand.

As he closes his eyes he tells her more secrets. More pain that even she dare not write, for it is his and Gods— and now hidden in her heart for it is not hers to tell. She holds them. Almost as if they never existed—Although they do exist, lively.

And he takes me to bed where I lie at an opposite end.

Until he reaches for me that is and pulls me to his chest and holds mine to his and encompasses my being. I can barely breath.

           

He intertwines our legs and kisses my cheek—so close to my lips.

            “This can’t happen unless you can do this right,” I say.

            “Okay, I understand,” he says.

As he grabs me closer, my heart drops and I only have the urge to kiss him. And him hold me is almost more than I can bare.

Because the reality is, you won’t recall a thing.

He holds her. He holds her hand. She caresses his skin. She can’t stop touching his face. She outlines his face with her fingertip. He faces her and she faces him. His lock tight arms keep her. And as she escapes, she wakes to being found. He never leaves her untouched.

As the morning comes, she lies there. His hands never leave hers. She tries to save herself from the heartbreak of the morning and detaches her hands. But alas, he finds her even in his sleep.

She wakes up fully and stares at the ceiling.

“What the heck am I doing,” I think.

I continue to stare at the ceiling. I look at him. I look anywhere to find answers of the fact that I am in the past’s future.

She panics. She hates the reality of this being tainted and this being a sham.

They separate.

He wakes up.

It is as if this never existed.

Cue music.

Can you lie next to her and give her your heart, you’re heard. As well as your body. Any can you lie next to her and confess your love as well as your folly. And can you kneel before the King and saying, I’m clean. I’m clean…” Mumford and Sons—White blank page.