Where do you begin with a story like this? Well first off, I guess you could say I’m the main character. Whether that’s cynical or not is your judgment as the reader but this is about my personal experience so I guess it would be fitting that I’m on the cover of the book, or at least in the title. This isn’t any elongated romance or erotic fiction for women in their forties, this is just the angsty, hormonal ramblings of a gifted high school senior, but in the form of a narrative. I guess I’ll start by explaining my issue here. Don’t judge me for my character or moral standing; because at this point in senior year, it’s more of a marvel that I still have any semblance of the aforementioned qualities than it is that I’m telling you about it. My main problem, right now, in the current coordinates within the spectrum of this fine universe, is that I’m a terrible victim of an incurable disease that most scientists refer to as “procrastination.” I’m a self-diagnosed patient of this terrible beast, and am trying to portray the difficulties of dealing with this condition through my writing, in hopes that awareness for such a terrible fiend of a disease could be raised for the general public’s greater good. I hope to depict, through this retelling of a day’s events, just how hard it is to not only create a story but also to motivate oneself. Even as I’m writing this down now, and you’re reading it (at different times of course), you can probably tell that I like to talk, often without much meaning. Writing with meaning is difficult when you aren’t motivated, and I certainly was not motivated at the time of this publication. The development of a story such as this takes a significant amount of nothing being produced from my brain, and the stars aligned on this night to create a perfect storm of slacking and procrastination. Well, enough of the voluminous exposition, it’s time that we transition into the retelling of this epic, scribed through keyboard by yours truly. So without further ado, I present to you the story of my writer’s block.

It all began around eleven o’clock, AM. The previous night’s festivities had taken a toll on my young, aging body. The sheets covering my body gripped tighter than any vice could. Yet even with this development in antagonism, I managed to break free of the Django Chains made of polyester just long enough to tumble to the lightly-carpeted floor below. Like most Sundays, I awoke with the optimism that I would put on my student hat and be productive for the entire day. Since I’m currently telling this story as one of tragedy and failure, you can clearly tell that the hat remained on my bedroom dresser for the entirety of the day. At this early in the morning, it wasn’t a cardinal sin to remain useless to society for a little while longer. The idea of penning a multipage narrative for my AP English class hadn’t even crossed my mind as an urgent priority at this point. As a matter of fact, the only thing that did cross my mind was what was for breakfast. I stumbled down the stairs to reach the level of the house that held the kitchen, more so my mother’s sanctuary than mine, and inspected the rations for the afternoon. The thought of an omelet with some of the local amish’s fresh bacon in it was about as appetizing as food could ever hope to be. What was more enticing, however, was Nothing. Nothing reared its ugly head for the first time around quarter-past eleven, pushing me from my morning meal with promises of effortlessness. Nothing and I have had a long-standing love-hate relationship in the past, and today would prove to be a battle between the two of us. I ended the first battle by lacking the mindset to cook, and simply grabbing a full water bottle and heading back to my lair.

The time is now high noon in the Wild West, and we rejoin our hero (that would be me) in his quest for motivation at a roadblock in his journey. The doors to the saloon swing open as our hero stands in the doorway, with wheat stemming from his teeth and a cattle revolver resting at his hip, in a holster he made himself. Our hero enters slowly, being an outsider earning him up-down looks from the bar’s regulars. He makes himself comfortable at a seat and after being served a drink immediately falls asleep. How’s that for a transition, huh? Given the actual story is not the Wild West, just a part of my house that smells like people haven’t mastered the art of regular bathing. At this point in my day I’ve moved to my bedroom, an area that fits the preceding description, and begun to fantasize such situations as the one where I am a rough-and-tumble cowboy in a new town. The words “story” and “homework” have yet to be inducted into the Noah Breymeier Hall of Relevant Words, and I slip into my early afternoon nap, having not even accomplished a meal. At this point, even the task of being awake requires too much effort for me. When I fall into my deep sleep, I dream of sugarplums and frankincense and other things that I don’t quite have the knowledge of to actually visualize. My mind is still waking up, and Nothing scratches another tally next to its name for the day’s second victory over the home team. By the time I wake again, the clock has decided that it should be more productive than me as well, advancing its hands so that its stubbier arm points to a three, almost accusing it of ruining me in a way. I’ve found that sleep has now taken up more time than I’ve been awake. The idea of a short story to be written crosses my mind as laughable and clearly not an issue at the moment. After taking a nice swig from my water bottle, I choose to try and devote my time to the almighty sound and picture box that we now call a television. Finding myself a comfortable spot on the couch, I waste away several half-hour periods with episodes of Spongebob Squarepants that provide little to no assistance in the completion of my story assignment. My thirst for water, rather than knowledge, overtakes me until my water bottle quenches it. The bottle has been depleted to a little more than half full. The meniscus still hides behind the wrapper of the bottle, but dents and a wearing of the wrapper’s adhesive show that this bottle is beginning to decrease in quality. My spot on the couch confirms yet another victory for Nothing, who today has brought its “A” game to my “D or F” game. The idea that I have completed greater tasks in less time reassures me that my procrastination will have a safety net of some sorts. Thus I continue my day as if nothing was out of place or urgent.

The clock now stretches its arms to create a one-hundred-eighty degree stance on the face, showing me that it is now three-quarters of a completed day that has passed me by. The erect stance of the clock arms reminds me of a body at rest, but I ignore the parallels I finally get up from my almost eternal resting place on the couch, only to sit down in a chair at the dinner table to eat. The family discusses normal business; my father asks how my homework is and my mother asks how last night was. Neither inquiry garners more than the normal teenage response of “good” seeing as I simply have more important things to attend to. I return to my bed following dinner to check social media for any new updates on the community’s finest fifteen-to-eighteen-year-olds. Yet another hour passes as the words “work” and “sleep” begin to grow louder, and it soon dawns on me that in the current situation, each word jeopardizes the agenda of the other. I am presented with a possible decision: I could work now, so that my sleep could come at a time of my choosing later on, or I could sleep now, and put off the work until the urgency of required completion is my motivation. My choosing of the latter option makes the score of today’s match between myself and Nothing a disappointing three points to none in favor of the intangible idea. The beatings that were dished out already had me on the ropes going into this decisive fourth round with Nothing. Fear not for me however, for all it takes to win is one good punch. Until then, I would remain on my seemingly omnipresent bedspread, watching the ceiling fan until my eyelids grew heavier than cars. The day would not soon be mine, as my return to slumber proved near fatal for the completion of my project.

The muscles of my face regain control of the eyelid nations, pushing insurgents back into line and allowing the reopening of the eyeballs. At this point however, the land of said territory was in such ruins that it could barely sustain itself. This is how I felt as well when I chose to observe the clock, whose powerful arms now depicted a double digit time. It was amazing to me that what seemed like only a couple episodes of Castle on TNT could turn into an entire section of my evening being put to rest. I reached toward my dresser to replenish my body of fluids, but all that remained of my beautiful morning water bottle was a twisted, demented carcass that didn’t even remotely resemble the beautiful source of life it once was. The realization that the time had passed on without me along with the passing of my bottle’s supply meant it was time for action. The words dealing with work could no longer be ignored. The fight that had me down for the count on several different Raymour & Flanigan canvases was now to be won, in the classic underdog, come-from-behind fashion. It was time to end the cinematic of Sunday with the beginning of my story.

The issue here arose when I stared blankly at the Word Document so far holding only an MLA formatted header with my name, followed by the teacher and the assignment. After several minutes of pondering possible candidates for a narrative, I realized that my creative bones had been fractured as a result of the lack of conditioning that they received throughout the earlier parts of the day. Rather than sitting and ignoring the shots that the heavyweight Nothing was taking at me, I should have parried and countered in order to make progress. At this point in the night however, I was throwing from the corner, with the round seemingly ending only when one fighter stopped fighting. I refused to be beaten any longer, and the idea of a story came to me like a pair of brass knuckles: I was to write about my process of writing. The day itself was still in fresh memory, so recollection shouldn’t be too difficult. Putting fingers to keys faster than my mind could react, I knocked several pages of Nothing out with strong hooks and uppercuts. I chose to stand to type this story, as no form of other posture could take advantage of me like before. Soon even the clock fell behind in timekeeping, and the shutout in the fight between myself and Nothing became an even field.

At the end of the day, near ten minutes to midnight, The Nothing team decided it would be best if they threw in the towel, and through perseverance and determination, I had come out on top. The sloth-like motions and desire for Nothing were gone. The clock’s hands hid behind one another in humble surrender. I turned to the coffee table next to me and took a long drink from the refilled water bottle, who in its fullness returned to great beauty and ability. It is always a great feeling to lift the burden of responsibility from your shoulders, especially if you facilitated the lifting with your own personal accomplishment. From the ruins of Nothing, I find that there is always the possibility for Nothing to become Something, if you can put your mind to it.

So you see, this story does in a way have a happy ending. There is no princess going off in a magical acid-trip induced vegetable to live forever with a guy she just met. There is no righteous victory in war by a morally-renown soldier. The victory here goes to all those who fight against the greatest enemy of all: themselves. The enemy is not only themselves, but the lazy, sleep-adoring furniture magnet that lives inside them, the devil of procrastination as well. Those who do not have the same problem as I portrayed to you could never understand the true feeling of greatness one gets from conquering this condition. Anyone who has pushed an assignment off can relate and possess the ability to defeat their own Nothing as well. So in conclusion, the great lack of motivation that led me to my battle with Nothing, as well as my short-coming in finding something to write about has led me to this story, a story in itself.