The writer that had nothing to write about.

The writer that had nothing to write about.



There is this guy who calls himself a writer. He had never write about anything specifically. He usually took his pen and wrote, wrote, wrote. He wrote sentences or paragraph, on the bad times he would just write nonsense words.


Once he came by to a newspaper editor to request a job as a reporter and he was accepted, not because this was a good writer but because it was a not good newspaper.  He was there no for money, no for fame, just because he liked “writing” as he called it.


He wrote senseless pieces, as the report on a seagull crash, or the note on some poker player at a bar. Papers were printed once a week, and week after week he looked for the column he had been writing. He read it; he read it again, and again. Once he told a friend about his job but in special the reading part of his note. His work was writing, not reading.


If he was asked why he liked more reading than writing he answer that because as much as he read more he learned about himself. While he was fine with that nobody bothered him.


As the time went, the writer was a happy reader of himself. Maybe some other person that maybe used to buy all the newspaper on town and read them had maybe come to read his columns. But if he had readers or not he continued to write.


He once told his friend that writing is not to reading, as if they had some kind of proportion. Writing is to make things happen, he continued telling his friend, and reading is to learn what happened.


He never kept the paper, he would just read and dump it. He had no money, barely a bed, a piece of bread in his pocket. But he was a writer that was important enough to him.


The writer wrote about all he could, all he could imagine to happen. That was his magic and charm. He was crating a whole different view of things. The editor was happy to read his note, the light notes as he called them. Maybe is not worth telling that the newspaper was more like a scandal sheet.


There were other writers, real ones, writers that got a lot of money, had sport cars, went to Cancun for vacation and a lot of fancy things, he admired them but did not dare to be like them. He was happy with his situation.


The mystery about this man was how he made his living. As he said, by writing he made things happen. So in some incredible way he was able to live with that. He was a powerful writing magician.


I do not mean that he was an actual magician or that he workout magic, no way. But certain things did happen because he wrote about them.


Apparently a wealthy man read a news in which the writer was proposing an investment in some special bank account. The investor got 15% in profits out of that investment. The wealthy man was so happy to he decided to give the writer part of the money.


Another time he wrote a senseless article about ten reason why to buy a 1983 thunderbird, someone read it and buy the car. The seller asked the buyer who told him about the car, he told him he was convince by an article in the newspaper. The seller went to the writers office an offered him part of the revenue.


This was his way of leaving until newspaper was sold and the new owner just did not accept him. He told the writer that it was about time for him to go along to write somewhere else. So there he was, sitting next to me, pen on hand and thinking what to write about. He did not have something to write about.



 This story was written by Juan Pablo Estrada




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war of wordss


I write under some small delusion,

that you would want to see

me bare my soul and that my soul

is full of colour and wonder,

that I could some how venerate your being

with Some spark of creativity

magnified to a whole new status.
And I wrap myself up in this warm delusion

It helps me sleep at night,

I feel better about the world

even a little less lonely, at first...

Because then you're driven by some constant compulsion

to draw out the emotions.

You plot and plan words

and the schematics of affectations.

The tiniest hopes spur you on

through endless trials and drafts of perfection

not yet in words perfected.

You stretch your minds limits

you seek new boundaries of thought.

You while away hours forming possibilities

based on a line that becomes the hook.

You become the friend of empathy.

Seeking to somehow bring a voice to others pain.

All the while selfish and conceded

it is merely a means to an end.

The is no torture greater than this discipline of arts

with such limited tools to drive a wedge of emotion

through the eyes and drive to affect the mind

to cause a heart response that reaches the soul...

I please you.

This is my delusion

that sparks the wars of many wordss.

Fighting for the chance to venerate me.

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Writers Block

Writers Block.
I'm looking at the clock.

Another Minute goes by.
Another Idea not applied.

Come on mind!
Give me more rhymes!

Time! Time!
Give me more Time!

Another hour gone by.
Another sentence not applied.

Come on mind!
This has happened before.
Oh how did I find the time?
I just need more!

Examples, Ideas, SOMETHING!
Give me something!
A topic?!
No that's not it!

Oh, My mind,
Just Keeps Fading from Time!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This poem is a very different poem that I just came up with. It's about when you have writers block and you're like fighting with your mind, because you can't come up with any good Ideas. (I didn't have writers block wile writing this poem!)

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