There was a time in Brian's life when he felt dizzy every time he had literature homework. Brian was ten year's old and such days were always the same story. He came back home making sad eyes at his mom when saying "mom..., I have lite's homework". And mom always asked the same, "another short story to write? we'll have late dinner!".
Those days were a real struggle until the story was written. Brian's mom always pushed him with the main idea "you only has to write the first sentence, the rest of the story will be a piece of cake", but that motto wasn't helping, every sentence was broken pencils, cold sweat and tears in paper. For several weeks, those days dinner was cold and night late. The days after such nights, going back to school, were also the days when Brian discovered stress liked his stomach the most.
As time went by, as practice makes perfect, the real homework was only cracking the hard, elusive, first sentence, and the rest of the homework was many pieces of cake, and the dinner wasn't cold anymore, and the stomach only hurted after eating too many chocolate. As easy became writing for him that Brian's teacher began to call him "Brian the journalist", and Brian, ten years old, was even thinking on becoming a war journalist.
There was a time, many years after that, when Brian started writing short stories and shared them with a friend who also liked to read and to write. Like in school days, only the first sentence was an effort, and stories were like a river flowing to the sea. Many stories were written as a tour de force, trying to write harder, better, faster, stronger.
Those days, Brian writings were in Catalan, 'cause he was more fluent in such language, especially with emotional or fast-written stories. Those days were good days, and the universe started to roll clockwise at Brian's fingertips.
As time went by, he felt in love with that friend, and stories came to his mind from everywhere, sometimes faster than writing. But, alas! Brian's friend didn't feel the same, was a "friend zone" situation and for Brian this ended up (love feelings aside) with a typical writer's block, it was impossible for him to write anything in his mother tongue.
For many years, when Brian intended to write anything, words were nonsensical, gibberish, like "All mimsy were ye borogoves", and, of course, there was no first sentence to unraveling the riddle, no glue to put Humpty together again. For many years, Brian was still a compulsive reader, but not an amateur writer anymore. And the universe rolled and rolled, but nothing changed for good.
There was a time, many years later, when Brian felt in love, again, with another friend, again, but this time, this time she felt the same!. Love made Brian to start writing stories as breathing, and poetry, of course, and every single heart beat became a point from which stories could evolve, and fairy tales were real when Brian wrote them.
Those days, Brian's writings were in Spanish, the use of Catalan still had a mental block in his mind. Those days were good days, and the universe started, again, to roll clockwise at Brian's fingertips. Some days were like the universe was playing rockandroll and Brian could feel such rythm in every cell.
As time went by, though, it was awfully clear that Brian's life was not intended to be easy, since love and the beloved friend both vanished in the air, like Cinderella at midnight. This time the writer's block came back with a sadistic smile, and said "nor Catalan, neither Spanish, you fool". It was again the same old story, and the universe rolled and rolled, but nothing changed for good.
For many years, Brian didn't write a single sentence, didn't intended to, not even thought of. Were years where even the idea of a thought of a shy intention to start trying to write something was like feeling a physical pain, deep inside, between the belly and the mouth. Some days were like the universe was going towards the big crunch, and Brian was even sadly happy of that.
Many years before, out of the blue, when neutrinos were traveling faster than light while the rest of the world was forced to slow down life, something odd clicked at Brian's mind and he started to dance like a derviche crying out loud “never surrender”, after which he stopped dancing, a little dizzy, sat down, opened his netbook, and started writing a short story in English.
This time, far away from his ten years, Brian is here to stay, and is currently looking for anyone to teach him japanese, chinese, russian, or even modern etruscan, in order to be able to overcome any other love-related writer's block, if any.
This time, even if many lovers come and go and he couldn't be able to write in other known languages, he is now commited to create a thousand different ones, to stand up and fight back to the fate or to any kind of malicious entity that could try to destroy him.
And the universe will rock and roll, and everything will change for good, 'cause anything is possible when written by Brian the journalist.