This must be it. I have heard about it before but I have never known it. I have always wondered what the fuss was all about, yet only now, experiencing it for the first time, can I understand it. Can it be that I am really suffering from writer’s block?

Tired of staring at my computer screen, with nothing fresh coming to mind and nothing substantial spilling onto my Word document, I give up and walk to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. It is three o’clock in the morning.

Usually, my flow of writing tends to be better in the night time. Perhaps it is due to the quiet slumber of the world outside, allowing me to travel into its vast dimension of dreams, which are comparable to the narrow bridge between fiction and reality... but I doubt it. I do not actually know why, it is just so.

Those cliché images of writers drinking coffee after coffee into the early hours of the morning are not concocted purely out of somebody’s fervid imagination. Those age-old drawings of writers holding quills by the flickering light of a candle are, after all, not so far removed from pictures of modern writers typing frantically at a laptop with the afore-mentioned cup of coffee for company.

Not in my case, anyway.

But today nothing is coming. The stress of imagining the displeasure in the Editor’s voice at the other end of the phone is not helping either. What to do?

I stare at the mug of steaming coffee in my hands for a few long minutes, in which time I think almost nothing at all. I suddenly realise that it will be just useless to keep insisting at this point. I walk to the sink and pour the contents of the mug down the plug-hole. Then I go to bed.

I lie in bed, unable to sleep. Darn that coffee! I should not have drunk so many mug-fulls! By the time I drift into my own world of dreams, I guess it must be close to dawn.

I wake up with a start. I look at the clock and see that it is near noon — too near for comfort, in fact. I panic! My deadline, this afternoon, is even closer than it was last night, and I still have not typed a single word I can use. Worse still, I am still uncertain what the subject of my article will be!

I make a bee-line for the shower, step inside and turn the cold tap on fully. The gush of water makes me shiver but it succeeds in springing me back to life. I notice that there is some movement in my brain again. Even if it is only memories and day-dreaming. Anything is a start. At least the motor is whirring.

I contemplate the wonderful period when I was travel-writing. To put it simply, I only had to share all the weird and wonderful experiences I was having. I find it undemanding to research further about that which intrigues me, whether by gathering second-hand information or, better still, by mingling directly within a culture that fascinates me, and living life-long dreams and adventures. Writing about such new experiences is like story-telling – recounting a detailed anecdote to a group of friends.

My mind wanders to less adventurous moments, to those assignments I had sometimes reluctantly accepted... suddenly feeling grateful that I had had that piece of the puzzle served to me like a cocktail with a slice of lemon perched on the glass. It is not always a simple matter to decide what to write about.

I remember the interviews with all sorts of people from all walks of life. How many times have I been pleasantly surprised to meet such charming people, or otherwise, in circles I would normally never have moved within? How often have I found myself absorbed by a subject matter I had previously been uninterested in? I ponder about how much we tend to take for granted about what goes on in other people’s lives.

And I feel blessed by the way all of this has enriched my existence.

Suddenly I hear howling coming from below my balcony. Keen to feel a little sun on my skin after the shock-treatment, I take the opportunity to step outside and have a look. Two cats are busy below.

I become curious by the chauvinistic attitude displayed by the desire-driven Tom. The Tabby looks and sounds very disapproving of the Tom’s insistence at holding her throat by his teeth. She suddenly swipes a paw, breaks loose and displaces herself by a few feet, her tail moving violently, expressing displeasure and warning him not to come near. I begin to wonder what it might be like to be in that poor cat’s skin!

Back in my kitchen, hoping to prepare a breakfast-cum-lunch, I realise that I am out of milk and bread. I decide that a few more

minutes’ delay prior to settling into “writing-mode” will hardly make much difference at this point. By now I am practically resigned that the Editor will be mad at me anyway. At best, I will deliver a late, below-standard article. At worst, well... at worst, I might get knocked off the contributors list! I brush this second possibility aside quickly, unable to give it due consideration. The prospect is unbearable — a writer’s worst nightmare!

I wait in the long line at the check-out. Bored by the uneventful situation, I observe the supermarket check-out girl as she takes item after item and places the bar-code in front of the scanner, each price read indicated by a beep. I admire her ability to keep smiling, beep after beep, bar-code after bar-code, bill after bill, customer after customer. For the first time in my history of supermarket purchases, I wonder who the check-out girl is.

Perhaps being a check-out cashier is not the most stimulating of jobs, but I suddenly feel curious to know what her typical day might be like. Does she ever have to deal with difficult customers? What if she makes a mistake in giving the change? How is it to have to face so many people in a day, even when you feel like being left alone?

I contemplate all the persons with whom I have subtle encounters on a day-to-day basis, never considering who they are, and what their lives are like — the postman, the gas delivery man, the lady in the small bazaar down the road. I remember English literature class at school, “the common man” performing his function unnoticed as described in Shakespeare’s play, “As You Like It,” and suddenly become curious. I look more intently at the people around me.

As I turn around, my eyes meet the ones of the man behind me in the queue. We have been standing near each other for more than 10 minutes but have not even acknowledged each other, let alone exchanged greetings. I am pleased when he smiles, and I smile back.

“Long wait today, isn’t it?” he says in a friendly voice. “Indeed!” I reply. We begin to chat. It transpires that he is a fireman, and that he is due on duty soon. I am curious about his job. I never met a fireman before. I ask him some details about his profession, and find his stories fascinating.

“Time flies when you are having fun,” so they say, and indeed, it seems that all of a sudden the long line in front of me has disappeared and I am standing in front of the smiling check-out girl. Reluctantly I bid the friendly fireman goodbye. I wish I could learn more about his adventures.

In fact, on my way home I realise that there is plenty I would love to learn about people, and professionals I might never have the opportunity to meet in my life! What is it like to be a helicopter-pilot for the Malta Army? Or a Maltese farmer? I wonder if I can ever get a chance to find out.

Back in my den, as I take my shopping out of the basket, I realise that I do not even know where my milk comes from and how my bread is made! What do the cows that produced my milk look like? How do they live? How does their milk end up on my kitchen table? And has the dough of my bread been made by a machine or kneaded by hand? Has it been baked in a traditional wood-oven or a modern alternative?

I feel inspired! The simplest things, the smallest of creatures and the most common people taken for granted in my daily life have a most intriguing story just waiting to be told. I want to know it and I want to tell it! But where do I begin?

Perhaps it might be wise to begin close to home? Do readers of the various publications where my name often appears, alongside dozens of other writers’ names, ever wonder what it takes to be a writer? Do they ever stop and think about how features and articles end up on the pages of a newspaper or a magazine? Maybe I too am contemplating it properly for the first time.

Where is my laptop?

This is the first of Melanie Drury’s, “A Day in the Life of...” series. The next one is due on 12 May.

www.melaniedrury.com

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