Writer’s Block

I’m a vampire.

Now don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not here to kill you.

I’m here to give you immortality.

Here’s where fiction tends to get it wrong, my friend. It’s not ‘vampire bites person, person turns vampire, rinse and repeat’. It’s more along the lines of ‘vampires bites person, person becomes vampire, previous vampire becomes a human’. Explains why you don’t see the overpopulation thing becoming a huge problem.

I’ve seen what you can do. You’re a writer. Like I used to be. You always feel like you’ll never have enough time. You go to work. You do your job. You come home, exhausted, only with enough energy to maybe get a page or two out before you collapse in exhaustion. Then tomorrow it’s the same thing. You’ll never finish that book at this rate, you feel.

So if you have all of eternity to write it, what will stop you? There’s no worrying about running out of time anymore, even if you keep your dead end job. You really won’t have to- the dead don’t eat. We don’t even sleep. The blood drinking is an option, especially when you can’t find a way through a block. I find a good drink of O Positive brings back my inspiration.

Imagine how much you can get done, with all the time in the world.

… Why would I be giving this to you?

Well, you see, I’m much older than I look. Are we that surprised? Remember, I said I used to be a writer like you… I used to be.

With all the time in the world, all I did was write. Published under different names. Maybe you heard of me. I made good money and indulged in some crazier things, but I was soon back at my pen and later the typewriter. I had all the time in the world to write now, and that’s all I wanted to do.

Here’s the thing.

That’s all I did.

And the human mind is creative. Beyond creative, actually. But there’s a limit to how far we can go.

And sooner or later, we run out of inspiration.

I haven’t written a good story in sixteen years. I don’t have a purpose anymore, with that gone… so, now I think it’s time I let someone else take this gift.

It’s not a perfect gift. I’m not going to be entirely pretentious and call it a curse, when it’s obviously not. All the things I got done! But all good things must come to an end.

So, would you give me your wrist, and let me finally pass into hell? It’ll be the only exciting thing left for me.

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