The Green Scribe

Write out small bulleted sections that describe all the possible feasible ways the story could continue from this point. For example:

Storyline: A guy walks into a bar. Options: - He could order a drink - He could beat the shit out of someone - He could meet the love of his life - He could make a really bad "a guy walks into a bar" joke

Obviously your version will be more complex than this, but the idea is to visualize what is available to you and what does or doesn't work with your story. It's like grocery shopping - personally I like to reach for the "Love of My Life" cereal. Quite tasty.

2. Switch up the environment! I am guilty of being a writer who does most of their creative work from the comfort of their couch or bed. But when I do actually have writer's block, I use this method. I can't begin to describe how helpful it can be.

Fitting the Story: Changing up where you do your work can affect the way you put the words down, since they are usually a reflection of your own mood. Something warm and loving might call for working outside in the sunlight. Something dark might mean working at night, perhaps overlooking a city or memorizing the way shadows move under low light.

Music is another part of your environment. Spotify and Youtube will happily curate vibe-specific playlists for you. I have numerous dark academia playlists on both sites, since that is my main genre.

Even changing the medium you work on might be helpful. I've found it strangely helpful to write on pen and paper when I am trying to bring forth very thoughtful or meaningful expressions.

3. Reflect on the work of others. If you're struggling to write, then read read read!

Submerse yourself in literature (familiar or not) that feeds into what you're aiming for. RomCom? The Hating Game by Sally Thorn. Adventure? Turn to Tolkien or Rowling. Romance? Uhhh.. Wattpad.

Point being, seek inspiration. Understand that nothing "comes naturally" more than it "comes with experience". You are a writer. You are a beautiful writer who just wants one more spice in the pot to bring out all the rest of the flavors. And that in itself is art.

Please comment if you have any other suggestions for fellow writers who are experiencing block!

Harper yanked him by the collar, up close and personal, the way she knew they hated it. The man’s knees nearly caved towards her, making him stumble like a fool even as most of his weight was suspended by a fistful of his shirt.

“If I see you near Grimmauld Place again”, she continued, the corner of her lip twisted in disgust, “I will beat you into something so unrecognizable that your own mother would sweep you into a dustpan and apologize to the carpet.”

The man’s lips parted, as if they were about to beg or plead or maybe heave in fear. But Harper softly ‘tut-tutted’ the sounds right out of his mouth.

“And I don’t mean that metaphorically. I’ll start by folding you up like an overcooked accordion, then I’ll post what’s left of you through seven different letterboxes across London, one limb at a time.”

A beat did not pass.

“Decomposition gets first dibs. Then the carnivorous birds, then the bugs and maggots. Your ribs will be reduced to a coat rack. Your femurs will be a stray dog’s chew toy. Your head will be safe, though. You’re already gaunt and balding and rotting and it’s not like there’s anything behind those eyes for the creatures to snack on.”

The man in Harper’s grasp whimpered pathetically. The stench of piss suddenly passes beneath her nose. She prays to Merlin that’s just how the alleyway smells.

“So.”, she says with a huff of finality, despite her grip not loosening. If anything, it tightens, punctuating her deathly promise with each new wrinkle her fingers dug into the fabric. “If you enjoy life – which, I’d be shocked, given how sad of a thing you are – then I suggest you never step foot near this complex again.”

Harper doesn’t have to ask for understanding. The man nodded furiously, hands lifted in speechless surrender, knees still quaking beneath him.

He had indeed pissed himself. So much so that the darkened cloth of his trousers reached his ankles.

Harper nearly turns green at the sight.

She quickly shoves him away, the pale, tensed skin of her knuckles finally returning to their regular light tan. The man stumbled until he hits the wall of the alley, his back scraping along the rough brick as he slid down into a curled sitting position.

Everything about the scene was sad, foul even, yet Harper doesn’t know whether to laugh or beat the living daylights out of him right then and there.

“You have 12 hours to pack your things and leave London.”, she muttered lowly, hands sliding into the pockets of her coat. “Return to Munster and tell those other dark wizards to stay off my turf and away from my mates. Otherwise, the first throat I’m coming for is yours. And then your boss.”

The man replied with a submissive little ‘yes, yes' and a nod, his eyes drilling into the concrete floor, as if having Harper in peripheral vision was enough to make him piss a second time.

“Good.”, she rasped, turning at the heel towards the lit end of the alleyway. The tread of her boots drummed against the ground beneath her steps, each one echoing along the walls like a dangerous parting speech to the man.

“Send Riddle my regards.”

Oh, how I would love to just let it all out, to funnel your hypocrisy and self-absorbance right back down your gullet with a plunger.

Pray you don’t choke.

I wish you could see from my perspective. You’d be feeling a little homicidal, too.

Words are weapons. I do my best to be a pacifist around the oblivious. Or in some cases, the ignorant.

But this is tiring. You are tiring, and oblivious, and ignorant.

I am tired of holding the magnifying glass to your skin, begging to see beneath and claw along the selfish flesh.

I am tired of knocking on the door of your palace, lights on but left unanswered, preoccupied with yourself, yourself, yourself, yourself, yourself.

When will you hear me? When I finally turn at the heel and leave you to your own devices?

Do I need to hurt you?

Or do I need to hurt myself?

And don’t trip me with that guilt. Don’t make me to stoop to an apology after atrociously shutting me down time and time again.

I am not the monster you keep engaging. Yet I find myself reduced to the frustration of being in your presence. Your line of sight, even.

Most people would tell you to take a good look in the mirror.

No.

Put the fucking mirror down, you've had enough of that.

Look into the eyes of the people around you.

LISTEN TO THEM.

LISTEN TO ME.

Her fingers searched along herself aimlessly until they found purchase on the blanket draped at her thighs, which she tugged up over her head with a soft grunt.

The room outside her fabric cocoon was still cool, and for a moment, she just lay there, eyes closed, feeling the warmth of the early morning light settling over her.

There was no rush to start the day yet. The quiet comfort of the room felt like a gentle invitation to linger.

Minutes passed as she relished her current state. The peeking rays of sun left a path of tepid heat along the fabric of the blanket, like a warm hand slowly gliding along her side in a courteous effort to wake her.

With a reluctant sigh, she stretched, her muscles unwinding slowly from the stillness of sleep. Her lumbered limbs poked out from beneath the blanket, greeted by the colder air and sending a chill down her skin and a whine up her throat.

She pushed herself into a sitting position, letting the blanket pool at her waist. Dark, disheveled curls slipped over her face as she stared down blearily into her lap, trying to gain that last bit of consciousness to begin functioning.

Her arms lifted slowly to the air, fingers reaching high above her head, feeling the crisp stretch of her body. Out came a small yawn, followed by a rasped hum that usually came after a good night’s rest.

The world was still hazy, but the room around her was already taking shape - the soft lines of her dorm room, the remnants of last night’s studies strewn over the desk, some of which made their way to the foot of her bed.

She rubbed at her eyes, the last bits of sleep clinging to her, and for a moment, just let herself exist in that half-dreamy state. The sun on her skin was warm, the air cool but inviting.

She could hear the faint hum of distant voices, all muffled in the hall outside her dorm. Other students were starting their days.

Then, the smell of coffee reached her nose – floral, familiar, the promise of beloved caffeine. She inhaled deeply, letting the rich scent fill her lungs. It wasn’t too strong or overwhelming, but just enough to pull her from the drowsy haze.

There was a faint trace of toast and butter in the air, too, the kind that always seemed to make mornings feel a little more grounded. It reminded her of home, of weekends spent in the kitchen and the quiet clink of dishes.

Must be her roommate.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, feet meeting the coolness of the floor, and paused for a moment, letting the weight of the day settle into her.

She stood and stretched again, this time reaching for the ceiling, feeling the soft crack of her back as she woke her muscles fully. The light outside seemed to brighten just a little, as if welcoming her awakened state into the world.