It was a Tuesday, the third of October, when my muse left me. Halfway through the third chapter of my deliciously satirical exposé, which I had so cleverly titled “The Ethical Politician,” it happened. My pen froze to the paper, a pool of ink spreading from its point. The sentence made no sense. Verbs, nouns, prepositional phrases – all words no longer relevant in my suddenly empty mind. My creativity had vanished.
High and low I searched for it. From the tip of my intellect to the depths of my emotional being I groped in the darkness, hoping to strike a creative vein. It was nowhere to be found. A stream of obscenities issued forth, searing the abruptly discontinued editorial. I stood alone in the barren wasteland of my once-creative mind.
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