A Writer's Block Solution Story

The guy's probably a kook! I thought as I idly stared at the old man with the long flowing white beard, his face a road map of wrinkles. Ut Oh... , he's heading my way...

"Hey there! You look stymied. Can't think of anything to write... ? Well, poor you..."

"Can't you see I'm busy here? Who are you?" I ask impatiently.

"Why, I'm Father Time! Don't you recognize me? I been keeping you company right down through the Decades. I keep picking your pocket but you're a stubborn one. You just keep right on a comin'," he laughed.

"But don't count on doing that for much longer, in fact, I wouldn't buy anything on time if I was you."

"You're Father Time... ? Sure you are Hoss!" I laughed. About now—with my literary well completely dry—Heck ... I needed a diversion. Maybe I'll humor this guy a little. You know ... string him along a bit.

"Ya' know," I said, "that crack you just made about my not buying anything on time wasn't appreciated. At my age, they won't let me buy anything on time anyway. So ... I pay cash for everything."

"After all these years, you still haven't learned to be modest," he said, sadly. "And to think, I used to have such high hopes for you."

"Sorry to disappoint," I said, attempting to console him. "If it's any consolation, I don't have much --,"

"Much? Much of what... ? Can't you put together a coherent sentence? And you call yourself a writer..."

"Darn it, Father Time... , you didn't let me finish my sentence. I was trying to tell you... , they're making me pay cash..."

"What'd I tell you about bragging? You keep talkin' like that—you'll end in my remedial Modesty 101 class.

"Although, it's a little crowded at the moment, so you'll probably have to wait until this guy who calls himself The Decider leaves. I'm hoping it will be sooner than later. Maybe he could go to Paraguay or somewhere like that.

"Not to change the subject ... but I see your computer's not getting much action these days—what's the matter—did you forget how to spell?"

"You probably don't know it," he said, "but your computer has a feature called a Spell Checker. It's there for poor spellers so they can fake it—you know... , like you do."

"Darn it! Father Time! I'm a good speller. And, I'm not faking it... !" I said.

I thought, Now, I'm starting to get upset with this guy.

"You... , a good speller... ? Try telling that to your readers sometime." He said, with an irritating little chuckle.

The guy's a Smart Ass! I don't care if he is Father Time, I said to myself, feeling just a little bitter.

"So, I'm having a dry spell. So sue me! You don't know what means—dry spell?" I said. Now I'm starting to get slightly peeved.

"It's no wonder you're having a dry spell," he laughed. "Look who you're writing about. Writing about me is about as exciting as eating Swiss cheese."