The Cure to Writer's Block

Attention, all writers! Finally, the glorious day has come. I have discovered the cure for writer's block. The ingredients? A faulty door lock, a screwdriver, a hammer, and three Indian engineering students of Columbia University.

In other words, a good story.

Obviously, I've been neglecting this blog. Like with so many of my hobbies, once I've done it a few times, I begin to procrastinate. But it was more than that -- I haven't written anything (on here or otherwise) since my last post. It's been the longest, steady writer's block that I've had since I began writing regularly. Every time I sat down to write, the words wouldn't flow.

And then a horrible, and simultaneously wonderful, event happened: my room locked me out.

I discovered this after working a 10 hour shift (as I do every Saturday and Sunday) at my weekend job. It's not an exhausting job by any means (unless you count my coworkers, which I'm sure I'll write about in the near future). Mostly I sit and read my book whilst answering the phone whenever it rings. Still, after 10 hours in an office and the 45 minute trip home, I was not overly pleased to discover that my room had decided that we're not on speaking terms.

After figuring out that none of the keys I have work for the door, and kicking it a few times for good measure, I finally asked for help. It started with the one roommate that I always go to for the key to the post box. We spent maybe three minutes shoving knives, forks, other keys, everything we could think of into the key hole (yes, get your "that's what she said"s over with) when the other two roommates came to see what the commotion was about. They rushed to help -- something which had very little to do with me, and a lot to do with the irresistible urge inside all engineering majors to solve a problem.

At first I tried to help, but soon I found that I was more useful standing on the sidelines as the three young men jabbered between English and Hindi. From what I got of the English parts, they were discussing angles and degrees, as well as the amount of force needed to break open a lock. Next thing I know, Roommate #3 (as I so call him in my head -- they've told me their names, but A. It's something I can't pronounce, and B. I'm horrible with names anyway) ran next door and came back a minute later with a screwdriver and a hammer. Within five minutes, the door was open.

I thanked them profusely, telling them that they were my heroes, and telling Roommate #3 that he should join the CIA as a professional lock breaker. His strange forced laughter accompanied by his slow nodding told me that the cultural barrier goes both ways.

Roommates number 1, 2, and 3, I may never know your names, but you will forever be the three men that put an end to a most suffering case of writer's block.