Closed The Cure for Writer's Block

[Arvel Ayers]

Arvel knew that if he didn't start producing articles for the Hogwarts Monthly, it was only a matter of time before Sophie kicked him out. He told Analei he had writer's block, though the problem was a little deeper than that. Writing wasn't the issue. He could write pages and pages of articles, stories, poems, songs. The issue was that they all sucked. He just wasn't a good writer, and no amount of practice seemed to make him any better.

Turning over his sheet of parchment, he started to write a poem, concentrating less on whether it was any good or not and simply letting his thoughts flow through his quill and onto the page. It was easy to be less judgemental of his work when he knew he wasn't going to publish it - that his were the only eyes who would ever see it. He wrote about maps and stars and compasses, about long paths that didn't lead anywhere, and about his heart, for which he wasn't old enough to know the words he needed to capture it correctly. After a while his eyelids started to feel heavy, and, figuring hardly anybody came in here over the Christmas break, he decided to rest his head on his arms and nap hunched over at the table.

 

[Nixon Mercury]

Spending the christmas break at school had been lonely for Nixon, but this was what he preferred. At least at Hogwarts he was isolating himself by choice spending his days in obscure areas of the castle and grounds to take photos, and quiet corners with a notebook to get ahead on his writing. It comforted him to know that his isolation at school was his own doing, and if he so dared to change his routine he knew there were always chattering people around the school, or a friendly face or two in the hufflepuff common room he was sure wouldn't mind taking part in small talk to ward of the loneliness for a little while. But it was this knowledge and choosing to avoid other students that kept him comfortably alone, and the quiet environments he found himself in an essential ingredient to being productive in his hobbies. Nixon found he was happier this way, recovering from the stress of the semester with images captured through his camera and words written on paper while ignoring the pressure and obligation to socialize with people his age. If he did not know better he would call himself happy for the first time since he could remember.​

This accumulated happiness seemed to be temporary however when Nixon did decide to change his routine, choosing to write in the Hogwarts Monthly room in preparation for the new semester. Unknowing there would be someone else in the room, Nixon arrived loudly, kicking the door open as his arms were full of various stacks of paper, his quill resting atop the pile delicately. It was after he walked in and placed everything down that he looked to the rest of the room to see none other than Arvel, and Nixon immediately felt his happiness switch to fear and an overwhelming instinct to run took over. Assuming he would be the only hogwarts monthly writer at school for the break let alone spending time in the club room without a reason and given his history with Arvel, this situation was a level of uncomfortable Nixon was far from prepared for. "Didn't see you there." He said at an absence of how else to react, gaze moving to the corner of the room in an effort to avoid looking at the boy.​

 

[Arvel Ayers]

Hearing a crash at the door, Arvel jolted awake, quickly turning over his poems and leaning on them before he even looked to see who had come in. The blood drained from his face. If being a terrible writer wasn't cause enough for Arvel to quit the Monthly, bumping into Nixon all the time definitely was. Worried Nixon would try to read his private stuff, Arvel packed his poems away in his bag. "Mm," he grunted in response. What should he do? If he left the room now, it would seem as if he was running away, and he didn't want Nixon to think he was a coward - even if it was true. At the same time, he had absolutely nothing to say, and sitting in silence with Nixon was not Arvel's idea of a relaxing afternoon. He ran a hand through his hair, bouncing his knee under the table. Maybe Nixon was just dropping something off. Maybe he would leave now.