Thread: Writer's Block [Gypsy & Crusade]

Jerry Brockers had always been a little off. From his upbringing in rural Kansas to his choice to forego college despite his exceptional grades, he'd never been the type to take the road most traveled. His parents were a product of the hippie generation and had moved to Kansas from San Francisco when he two to try their luck at farming. They struggled mightily to keep the farm afloat, taking out a second mortgage, scaling back just about everything just so Jerry would have some food on the table. To say they were eccentric would be putting it mildly. They should have been fucking millionaires, though, since Jerry could have sworn they were the sole force behind the whole organic, holistic trend that swept the nation like wildfire. Because of his parents, Jerry was told from an early age to embrace his creative side. He started reading early, often riding his bike to the library in town, taking out books two or three at a time. He'd lock himself in his room until he'd finished entire books. He would study the way the greats wrote, from Steinbeck's sprawling prose that spoke to the working class, almost as if it was written about the struggles his own parents endured, to the chilling science fiction of Ray Bradbury. Before he was even a teenager, he knew what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. He idolized writers who could whisk him away from that small farm in Kansas to a whole new place in time. He wanted to be that same source of freedom for others. Because of his attention to detail and his almost photographic memory, Jerry never struggled in school. His grades were so impressive that Ivy league schools took no time in sending him acceptance letters. But Jerry, being the road less taken sort, decided to give up on college, feeling there wasn't much he could learn there to hone his craft. He'd already been writing short stories, submitting some to small publications who were showing an interest in how polished he was for someone so young. He wrote semi-biographical stories musing about paranoia, reclusiveness, and his fear of dying. He was very candid for someone who had so little interaction with the outside world. When he finally finished his first novel, a hard, harrowing journey through the mind of a crippled man, Jerry finally received the accolades that would give him the validation he wanted. It was his career. It was what he was supposed to do. Shortly after that initial success, Jerry moved from Kansas to the Pacific Northwest. He settled into a cabin in Oregon, living off the earth the way his parents had taught him. He had two more novels published, both receiving a good amount of fanfare and success and a large publisher, Kronos, signed him on, setting a deadline for the end of the year for his upcoming novel. And that would be Jerry's undoing. The author found himself with a case of writer's block that was debilitating. Sitting in front of his computer screen, he would dose off, waking hours later with not a single thought. He would write chapters and then erase every word. He found he couldn't focus for long, taking long walks around his property to try to find just the slightest inspiration. He'd never had any sort of deadline. Knowing he needed things by the end of the year put a seed of doubt in the back of his mind. He was working for them, not for himself. The pressure crippled him. Deciding there could only be one remedy, Jerry drove out to Portland and got himself a treasure trove of illegal and prescription drugs. He took them back to his cabin and started taking everything from Adderall to cocaine to something as innocent as caffeine pills. His focus was greatly improved, but that was just about all that did. His writing suffered and he knew it. He was depressed, frustrated and the loneliness was starting to affect him. The walls were closing in on him. He was delirious. Finding himself having a conversation, an in-depth one at that before coming to the realization he was talking to himself. He stopped taking drugs, but that only exacerbated the problem. The withdrawals tormented him. They taunted him. The drugs felt like his only friend. The only one he could turn to in a time of need. The novel was only a quarter finished as the deadline loomed. Turning to cocaine, Jerry was wired as the day turned into night. He felt like he was finally finding his way and he attributed it to the feeling of invincibility that white powder gave him. So he took more...and more... In and out of consciousness, Jerry managed to call for help. When he finally came to, he was back at home, but he found he wasn't alone. He was in bed, in a grey t-shirt and sweat pants. His head ached and his mouth so dry, he couldn't even muster enough saliva to spit. He let out a groan as he turned from his side onto his bed, stretching out his arms over his head. He was nauseous, temples throbbing. The light that glinted off of the snow outside his window was so bright, Jerry could hardly keep his eyes opened. He remembered the night he'd really found his rhythm, but that was all he remembered. The rest of the time between then and where he found himself was a complete blur.