Ways to overcome the Writer’s Block: Take a stroll and walk it off

Who said that nothing happens in this village?

We are in vacation in Romania and in a mountain village. It’s a cold-October evening and 7.30 pm. Most of the day I watched TV and I slept, only because I was overwhelmed by a writer’s block. I could not write a sentence for the past days, and the situation started to get on my nerves. I bounced ideas about a story about a magic dog, inspired by a painting at the art exhibition organised by Kompus 3, and I wanted to write that draft and create the first plot. Nothing worked, nothing came out of my mind, my fingers or my pen.

I decided to take a step back to help shake off the frustration and we go for a stroll in the village. If I change the life's goal for a few minutes and keep my mind on something else, then maybe something will click.

Just a walk to the coffee vending machine. It is dark already, and outside we use the flashlight to find the stairs, then walk the yard and open the gate. Alongside the main road the streetlamps lit our way pretty good. We smell the mountain air, frozen and fresh, that brings the cold in the nose and pinches the cheeks. 

The coffee vending machines in the village are a real discovery in our visit. They are fun and that day we already tried two of them, just to test the coffee. We had the Irish Cappuccino, and the Irish Latte. The Irish coffee has a hint of alcohol and lots of sugar! Maybe that’s why we like it, and it is not at all bad for a vending machine. Plus, with my keto diet I haven’t had sugar in months!  Treacherous me!

We walk until the closest coffee vending machine, which is located on the main street, in front of the general store. The store looks like a mini market, and the vending machine is next to the entry door, and it only takes 3 lei, that's about 1 AUD. On the ground someone smart placed a carboard box as a garbage bin, and invitingly, they are two wide benches against the wall. We insert the bills, as we come prepared, we pick the Irish coffee, we take our cups, we sit on one of the benches and sip.

So, we have the idiot coffee because there’s no other definition for that 3 lei coffee, and while we sit on one of the benches ready to soak up the silence and to talk about the story of the dog… everything starts to happen in a quick succession.

Suddenly cars, dogs, people and noises make the village alive!

The latest model of a black Volvo stops in front of the store. A woman in sports clothes comes out and leave the engine running. She goes inside the store. From the back seat a boy about 5 years old comes out of the car, slams the door, strips the wrap off a lollipop, drops the wrap on the ground and struts after the woman inside the store. We both watch the car as if something is brewing.

The empty car hums with its lights on, they are inside, we look at each other, ‘Shall we take it for a spin?’

Before we have a chance to take a decision, a black dog, slim on his long legs walks out of the shadows into the light, then goes around the car inspecting it and crosses the street on the other side.

They come out, soon enough, but they have empty hands, and with no words – nothing, they get in the car, and speed out, she drives straight ahead at first, then stops with a sudden break and reverse into a side street, turns to left and disappears in the night. What did they do inside the store?

We don’t have the time to even contemplate options. From the darkness across the street a silhouette comes out, I don’t know from where since all houses across the street are derelict and abandoned, she, because the person is a-she pushes a wheelbarrow and the screech of it echoes along the main road. A dark figure in the night. We look around, are we the only ones seeing her?

Two young boys come down the street, identically dressed in black jeans and white hoodies, including the hoods they pulled over their foreheads the same way. If weren’t for the white hoodies we wouldn’t see them in the night.

‘Evening,’ one of them mutters, and I answer ‘Evening’ but only to assure myself that I am not dreaming. I warm my hands from my cup of Irish Latte.

Ivan next to me, with his butt frozen on the cold wooden bench, ‘They must be twins.’ I know his butt is frozen because mine is too.

Then the action gets a bit livelier. A truck speeds down the road and a police car after it. Almost to hit the twins in white hoodies.

We look at each other and Ivan whispers while a huge trailer speeds up the hill from the opposite direction. ‘Who said that nothing happens in a village? We stayed in all day, and we missed the action.’

‘Or maybe the action takes place only at night,’ I answer, and my words are covered by the dark and the cars and trucks coming and going on the main road in a deafening noise.

A red Dacia pulls in front of the supermarket, its front wheels almost scraping at our knees. The man also leaves the engine running and gets in the store.

Again, we look at each other, ‘Should we take it for a spin?’

‘We missed our chance with the Volvo, but for this one, I bet even the heater is not working properly.’

‘Maybe this is why he let the engine running.’

Loud voices and loud music flow on the street from somewhere. The black dog comes back and sits in front of the car as if watching it, or watching us?

The man steps out from the store, wordlessly and also with empty hands. He gets in his car and off he goes.

We finish the coffee, and we continue our walk as we follow the noises. Another dog, a light brown one, walks in front of us. The other side of the street a woman talks to herself in front of a house, half in the dark, half lit by the streetlights. Across the square we find the source of the noise - three cars are parked in front of the village library, all lights on, music loud from one of them while the young men around the cars try to talk over. Among them we recognise the white hooded boys. We don’t have the courage to take our walk past them, usually night gives bad ideas, and we settle that our evening walk is complete now. We turn around and walk back home while both dogs watch us disappointed.

Before we are back to the house I have a story with Wayne the Dog, and I am over the writer’s block. I got it now.

I will always remember this night and this place as the moment when the story 'Wayne the Dog' was born. I am not sure if the title is final, but the first draft has a shape now.

Who said that nothing happens in this village?