As Joanne Galbraith rested her head against the uncomfortably flat pillow behind her, she could not help but wonder if standing and heading home was the wisest decision to make at that moment. The empty waiting room, warm and illuminated with soft, welcoming light, looked distinctly old and needed renovation. It had a musty odor, strongly reminiscent of the elderly’s homes — a feeling heightened by the large houseplant in the corner and its cream-colored stand (decorated with muted brown patterns and, disgustingly enough, all but buried under a thick coat of dust). There was drab wallpaper, dark brown contrasting curtains, and a wide, thin rug over vinyl wood flooring. 

She noted all this absently, having long since given in to the pull of boredom as she waited for the receptionist to return, periodically adjusting herself on the itchy, bland, cream-colored sham of a sofa. However, despite her misgivings about the clinic, she knew going there was preferable to her usual routine. Where before she could at least stare at the white screen of her laptop, document open, and features scrunched in concentration as the cursor repeatedly blinked in front of her, these days, she could no longer muster the will or energy to move, content to lay flat against her office’s floor, her face smashed against the tiles and nose breathing in dead skin and the dusty scents of long-rotted food with each deep, weary inhalation. 

Some days, stories flowed from her like rapids, and it was easy to tap away her magic in reams. On other days, it came like an old river, a slow yet steady outpour of words. Now, it came like cold molasses, as if the network of nerves and ligaments that had connected her brain to her hand, allowing words to flow so liberally, so generously, for as long as she could remember, had been blocked. She could spend days hunched over her desk without writing a single word, half-finished cups of sweet iced tea, and take-out boxes littering her work area.

She had experienced occasional bouts of writer’s block (as all writers were wont to do), but things were different this time. It was almost like her brain had switched off on her, making it nigh impossible to come up with new ideas for the past year. 

At first, she presumed she was experiencing burnout. Before the development, she had been churning out stories almost quarterly. Necessary for relevancy and maximizing profit, her agent had said. Stupid bit—

A chime wounded and — after a quick search through her purse yielded her phone — she leaned forward in place as she thumbed through the latest notifications. One, in particular, caught her attention; a response to a question she had posed on Quora. 

“Mine isn’t as severe as yours, thank God,” David G. Cooke had written. “But what usually helps me get over it is taking my dog for a walk outside or eating something sweet to get my mind going. Try and see if it’s the same for you.”

Good advice, no doubt, but they were among the first things she had tried (even going as far as to buy a dog), and — if it was not obvious — they had all failed. Her only consolation was that her efforts did not result in her account ending in the red, though, with how things were going, it was only a matter of time before it did. 

Huffing something close to a frustrated groan, she fought the sudden urge to throw her phone against the nearest wall and instead settled for rubbing the bridge of her nose with her free hand. Then, she sighed and, in need of a distraction, made to scroll through her apps mindlessly. However, as if on cue, the receptionist returned with a clipboard and pen, heels thudding lightly in her wake. 

“Please fill this in for me.”

The woman dropped the form on the small wooden coffee table and, with a brief smile — which almost seemed to be an afterthought — disappeared again. 

The phone immediately went back into her purse, and the bag to her side on the sofa so she could pick up the clipboard and place it on her lap. Face cocked to the side and a hand drumming an offbeat tempo with the nondescript pen on her cheek, Joanne read the first lines printed on the paper, taking a moment to think about what to write before doing as instructed. She skimmed the pen across the page, its end bobbing with each stroke as she wrote her details and purpose of visit in the provided spaces. 

Done with it, she buttoned her suit jacket, smoothed out her office-appropriate skirt, and crossed the short distance to the front desk. The receptionist had not yet returned, but she knew it was best to stand and move about the place. She had enough experience with muscle cramps to know to avoid remaining seated for long. 

Grateful for its height, she leaned against the desk and — after resting the clipboard on its marble surface — folded her hands and placed them beneath her chin. Her phone was still in her purse, so she decided to pass the time by taking in more of her surroundings. 

On the wall hung portraits of random people who looked about the room with happy smiles and different poses. She wondered if they were customers or employees, though the more she thought about it, the former was the more likely of the two. 

While combing through a buried writer’s forum on Reddit, she stumbled upon information on the clinic. Someone had shared their experience with writer’s block and how they overcame it there, but not many details were written about the methods used. Still, due to the similarities with her situation, it caught her attention, and, in a last-ditch effort driven solely by desperation, she ignored the red flags and looked up the clinic. To her amazement, although there were few reviews, the vast majority of them were positive. And despite the possibility of them being orchestrated (to trick unsuspecting people) nagging at the back of her mind, this, more than anything, made her decide to visit the place.  

As she stared at the pictures, brought out of her musings by the opening of one of the doors, those same reviews made her reconsider her belief: maybe, just maybe, they were indeed genuine, and the portraits were proof of that. 

She looked to the side to see the receptionist poking her head out, loose black ponytail shading half-lidded blue eyes and softly moving jaw. The distinctive sound of chewing gum snapping and popping was heard, causing Joanne to scrunch her nose slightly. How unprofessional. 

“Please hand me the form. I’ll be back shortly to tell you when Davies will see you.”

“Excuse me, I—”

Unable to get her words out in time, she watched, open-mouthed and mid-sentence, as the door was closed. Slowly, her mouth followed suit, even as loud expletives threatened to escape them, and she crossed her arms at her chest with a huff. Heading home was really looking like the wisest choice to make. 

Unconsciously, her feet began tapping against the floor, and a frown slowly worked its way onto her face as slow-moving seconds turned into equally slow-moving minutes. Fortunately — or unfortunately, depending on how one looked at it — before she could wear a hole in the floor or call it a day as a testament to her irritation, the door opened again. But this time, its hinges groaned as it swung wide, with the reason of said irritation holding it in place and beckoning her to come, dressy-top ruffling with the motion. 

“Davies will see you now.”

Breathing a sigh that relaxed her tensed features, Joanne nodded curtly and — after making a quick turn to get her purse — walked into the adjoining room, wanting nothing more than to get the upcoming meeting over before more of her precious patience was tested.