Because it happens even to the best authors...

Thanks to Brelaina, for beta-reading this.

Almost Had An Idea

Those walls really needed fresh paint, he decided. They looked as if Broody was redecorating them... perhaps even a bit worse.

Now was not the time to think about the walls though, he reminded himself. He had a book to write and he hadn't even started yet. He stared at the sheets of paper in front of him, but his mind remained just as blank. Perhaps some coffee would help. He rang the bell for Norah.

"Yes, Messere Varric?" She asked in her most annoyed voice.

"Could I have some coffee, please?"

"Again? That'll be the third pot today. And I hope you're going to clean that mess. I'm not going to do it, I'm telling you." She nodded towards the heaps of crumpled sheets on the floor.

"Naturally. Why would anyone expect cleaning from the maid? Don't worry, all I need is fresh coffee every hour or so."

She rolled her eyes, but nodded and picked up the empty pot and dirty cup and was almost out the door, when he called again.

"And don't let anyone in. I'm not here." He thought for a while. "Except Blondie. And Daisy. Broody…. Hm, yes, you may let Broody in. In fact, you may let in all my companions, except Rivaini. Understand?"

"Don't want her to steal my ideas again," he muttered as Norah closed the door behind her.

Right now there were no ideas to steal, but that was besides the point.

A few moments later, Norah returned with big pot of strong black coffee. He drank one cup immediately. Then he rolled his wrists and flexed fingers a few times. Leaning on the chair, he stretched his back, and rotated his head from side to side. Perfect. Fresh as new. Now the real work could finally start.

The story will be about... about... he drummed his fingers on the desk. Think. Focus. The story will be about... hm... perhaps – yes, that would be - but the idea was already gone. It wasn't that interesting anyway. So instead, it will be about... about...

A dozen or so "abouts" later he had to admit that perhaps Maker knew what it would be about, but he had no idea whatsoever.

This was ridiculous. What was this supposed to be, anyway? A writer's block? Oh come on. Everyone knew writer's block was just a fancy term made up by whiners so they could have an excuse to drink alcohol. Real authors never had it. They would simply start writing about whatever crossed their mind first. A word led to another word, then to a sentence, then to a paragraph, and before you knew it, the story was done. Right. He only needed a word.

Such as… for example… which one would be the best, hm…

It was because he was tired, he decided, pushing away the annoying voice that said there was no reason to be tired today. Today was his free day, sure, but that didn't mean he couldn't be tired. All he needed was a break, something to eat and a real drink, not that piss-like coffee. And fresh air.

Right. It would not only clear his head, but perhaps seeing other people would give him some ideas for a story. Grabbing his coat and Bianca, he walked out of the room, yelling to Norah that he had important business elsewhere and not to let anyone into his room while he was away.

He stepped outside and took a deep breath. Dirt, piss, sweat and stale fishes. Sometimes he liked it, found it inspiring, this smell of tragedies and traumas, lost innocence and despair, poverty and injustice…

Speaking of justice, he hadn't seen Blondie in a few days… poor guy is probably overworking himself again. Perhaps he should go to check up on him.

No, not today. Today he wanted to find an idea for his new book.

But perhaps one of Blondie's patient's stories would inspire him? Hmmm. That might be worth checking.

Two hours later, he left the clinic, still with no idea, but with a bad headache and a tincture that he was supposed to deliver to Hawke's mother for her stiff joints.

When Anders asked him if he could do it, he wanted to refuse. His free day was slipping away and he still hadn't written anything. But then he decided to do it; at least Hightown didn't smell, if nothing else. After all, he wouldn't stay long.

The trip to Hightown took another two hours, mostly because of Garrett – when that man started talking, nobody could stop him. But also because Leandra insisted that he stayed for a lunch. To invite such invitation with an excuse of writing a story would be rude.

Now, however, he really needed start working hard. He had a nice talk with his friends, a really delicious lunch and enough fresh air for a week. There was nothing that could stop him now. It was going to be a great story, best ever; Rivaini was going to die of envy. It would be full of his genius and sparkling wit. Oh, it would be great fun to write it. He couldn't wait to start working on it.

He returned to the Hanged Man in a much better mood, complimented Norah's lovely eyes – which she in return narrowed in suspicion and asked if he was drunk – and proceeded right to his room. He sat behind his desk, took the new sheet of paper, sharpened his quill, dipped it into the ink and –

… it will be such a great story…

… it will be about…

… about…

Those walls really needed fresh paint.