The fog grew blurrier and blurrier, and soon started to become a black block. Anger boiled inside of me. The eraser crumbs surrounded me, along with piles of crumbled up paper. All of the angered boiling inside traveled down to the tip on my pencil. Causing me crush the fine tip in between my fingers leaving the smooth gray feeling of lend on my fingers. I can feel the stories crawling back inside of me, which was the exact opposite of what I wanted. I’m supposed to be filled with daring and bold stories, not drained of them.
I tried to fight it, but it was too late. All I can heard is the nagging and rumors from the buzzing world. “Just mind your own business!” I yelled from of the top of my lungs surprising myself with my volume. The silent room was now filled with my echoing voice.
The thought immersed in my mind. The thought of “Maybe you are just a one hit wonder.” I heard it and thought about the same line over and over, and now I am starting to believe it. It left a bitter taste in mouth, as if I just swallowed a whole lemon.
The desk had books piled up high all about how to conquer this block, but after reading these books I still couldn’t write a single word. I was drowning in my empty thoughts.
I had writer’s block and there was no way around it, except to admit that I might not be able to write another word. 
I thought there was nothing worst than to have writer’s block, but I was wrong. I soon decided, “There is nothing worst than to have writer’s block when you have deadlines, thousand of fans waiting, and one annoyed publisher.”
“That’s it” I said, “You are the famous Mason Williams and a silly little block can’t intimate you!”
But the fact is that it can.
I decided enough was enough, and I grabbed my coat and rush out of the door. It’s been a long time since I just stopped and observed the street, the life around me, and all of it’s beauty. So I sat down on a bench and watch. 
Then I close my eyes, and imagine the world moving past me. I used to do this all the time with my sister. The reason I’m here today doing what I love is because she submitted my story, The Last Straw. To my surprise it was going to be publish. I loved her to death, but after that one car accident I found it hard to write again. Now I just find it hard to think. It’s as if my brain is punishing me.
My sister has alway been a role model to me. She was the one who inspired me to write. Everything was perfect, I was a well known and accomplished author, and she was just finishing up her last year in medical school. Then it happen.
It was cold and windy, to the point where the wind whistles every time it passed. The night was still young, and she was driving home. It was pouring and hard to see what was in front of you. She didn’t even drink, and she drove slower since it was raining. But just because she was being safe doesn’t mean other people were. She was just a block away from her apartment, and then “boom” she was hit.  
I rushed to the hospital as fast as I can. One of her lungs collapsed and it was failing. Both she and I knew that she wouldn’t last the night. So I spent every second possible with her. Our parents were there. I could see the streaks of clear droplets running down their cheek. I started to ball with them, but all she did was wipe away our tears and hushed us. The last thing she ever said to me was, “Don’t worry everything will work out. I love y…” She never was able to finish.
Now it’s a year later, and I was struggling. Just then I open my eyes and look up at the sky to whisper, “Everything hasn’t worked out yet, and you are still gone.” My eyes filled with water, and if I blink all the water will be pouring out. I sat there and let my thoughts surround me, just for a second.
Looking around I felt as if I was a ghost. I saw everything. I was lost in my memories, memories of her. It reminded me of all the good times I had. The memory of how I surprised her when I drove all the way to San Francisco from Boston just to wish her a happy birthday, and of my reaction when she told me that my book, The Last Straw, was going to be publish.
Little by little I realized I shouldn’t linger on the past, I should appreciate the time I spent with her. Just then and there I saw a her smiling face, knowing she would have wanted me to do this. My body reacted faster than my brain, and I just ran.
I ran back all the way home and I ran all the way back to my tiny writing room. I ran to my huge desk and sat down, and I wrote.
I just wrote like it was oxygen to my body, and if I didn't I would die. I wrote my sadness away, I wrote my until I felt something I haven't felt in a year.
I wrote until I felt happy.