The Springtime Author

He closed his eyes and leaned back, frustrated that the words wouldn't come.

Already, an hour had gone by, and still his screen remained blank. The small blinking bar on his screen told him that he wasn't, wasn't, wasn't typing. Nothing was going on here. He had writer's block.

He took a look around and saw that his phone was blinking. A message had come in while he was busy. As he listened to another bill message, he decided to go on a stroll. The creditors would have to wait.

Outside, the weather was pleasant, with a warm breeze stirring the grass around his house. As he walked, he noted the smiling faces all around him, the children running and shouting, but none of it mattered. The words wouldn't come.

Continuing on his walk, he met an old man sitting on a bench, feeding the birds. "How do you do, young man?" the old man asked.

"Not as well as I could be doing. I have writer's block," the writer said.

"How could you have such a condition in weather like this? The day is wonderful!"

The writer shook his head and continued on. How could he write a story when all he could think about was springtime? And then it came to him: people love spring. Couldn't he write a story about a place where it was always springtime, always calm?

With this thought, he hurried back to his house, sat down, and started typing.

And the words flowed.