I tried to find a thread where there were other things like this and all i found was the "Poetry Anyone?" thread but I like prose better anyway...
So the idea was that I was gonna do a whole gigantic story based on the song Düsseldorf, but then i realized that it would probably help if i had actually been to those places, so I'm left with this. Basically she's a writer and she has writer's block so she's going to europe to unblock herself. And for some reason i made her name Olive. I think it's really bad now that i reread it but what the hell... and for the record, i realize that Reg's hair isn't "brilliant red"...

Olive was a small girl, no taller than five-foot-two. But she was beautiful. He hair was a brilliant shade of red, long and curly, and it made a striking contrast with her smooth, pale skin. Her cheeks were plump, her nose perhaps a bit large but fitting. Her eyebrows were long and trimmed, but not too thin like those things on the coffee girl, and they rode the ridges above her eye sockets, which were deeper than average. Her eyes were a magnificent blue, and full of life. When she smiled they lit up, and her laughter was converted to electricity that made her eyes come alive.
And her smile. The smile that could bring life to a room full of dead people, though one questions if she would be smiling in that room. It was the most radiant, joyful, fantastic smile. She smiled so wide you could see her gums, so wide it is hard not to wonder whether or not she has, anywhere in her lineage, snake blood. But it was a smile undeniable to all who saw it – it possessed a draw that others could not resist. People just wanted to know this girl. She truly was beautiful.
She wore a short blue dress with black flowers on it, and silver slippers. On her ears she wore pearls, and around her neck a long pearl necklace tied into a slipknot near the bottom.
On appearance only, one would assume this was your typical, twenty-something New Yorker. But for an appearance that might engender assumptions of frilliness and girliness, this was one girl whose mouth could make a sailor cringe. Her voice was very high and delicate, almost like a child’s, and so when she cursed people might laugh at the cuteness of it all. She cursed casually in her conversation, frequently in her writing, and she often took very much pleasure in it. A slight Russian accent – she had immigrated to New York in her childhood – combined with a New York accent made her voice overall, the curse words perhaps especially, highly enjoyable to listen to.
And she examined her coffee. Two days in a row for the coffee girl.
Olive went home now, down the street, to pack. She smiled at her neighbor, Ronnie, when she passed in the street, and she petted Ronnie’s dog Tiger.
“I’m going away for awhile,” she said.
“Oh yeah? Where to?” he asked her.
“Europe.”
“All around?”
“That’s the plan. Is it ok if I leave Mozart with you?” Mozart was her fish.
“Sure!”
She smiled. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll drop him off later?”
“I’ll be there.”
And she walked on. Past the rows of brick buildings with their endearing, trademark fire escapes, past the little park adjacent her building, which she could see from her apartment. She had a lovely view of the pond in the middle. Finally she walked up the steps to the front door, opened it, and took the stairs up to the third floor. She took a right when she got there and walked to the end of the hall. Number 317, in all its glory.
Olive’s apartment was a mess – to be expected from a young writer with a severe case of writer’s block. Various articles of clothing were strewn about the room to create a scene to make Jackson Pollock proud. Dresses – black, grey, red, blue, yellow, and a particularly sprightly teal number that was one of her favorites; blouses printed with assorted patterns; vibrantly colored underwear – lime green, hot pink; all of which were peppered across the grey carpet that was there when she got the apartment. She had painted the walls a bright orange, which, at first sight, made visitors feel as though someone had just flashed a bright light in their eyes after several hours of darkness.
The windows were always left wide open in nice weather, and the blinds might as well have been removed, for they were always pulled to the top. Olive preferred the maximum amount of sunlight as possible in her apartment, as she felt the natural light allowed her a better environment in which to write. Music was essential to this environment, and it played loud, and she frequently left whatever she was doing to break into spontaneous dance. She couldn’t write without it.
And write she did – in years past, at least. Three years ago Olive would write every day. She was working on her first book then, and it flowed from her pen hand with the ease and celerity of a dolphin swimming. She wove the story in her mind, and soon her mind was her pen. Thoughts were siphoned from her brain, synapse to synapse, into her blood, so that the writing flowed through her completely, and she and it became a single entity. In the blood the words traveled to her fingertips, they diffused across the skin into the pen, and as the ink spilled onto the page so did her thoughts. She always handwrote before typing – it created for Olive a more natural experience. It let her feel the words as they were written, to know from the feeling of her hand moving along the paper whether or not it was what she wanted. Her words landed on the paper, effervescent with the liveliness of the storytelling, dancing in time with the rhythm of the prose. The words sparkled brilliantly, as did her smile, as did her eyes. And Olive smiled often, because she new it was good.
For months and months Olive wrote, often all day, often shunning such useless exercises as eating or sleeping. Coffee was essential to the operation’s success. Black, one sugar. And she drank and she wrote and she drank and she occasionally went to the bathroom, after which she drank some more. Olive spared neither time nor heart nor soul in the creation of her book – it took her the duration of its writing to produce a title that did the book any justice at all. And she found it – she thought it was at least more fitting than the working title used during the writing period, Fuck, I Can’t Find a Title. At present, a copy of this first novel lay precariously perched on the edge of the coffee table, a magenta bra lying atop it.
Olive scampered across the “shitpile,” as she enjoyed calling it – it had, in its continuing presence, earned itself a permanent name – to her bed, where the empty suitcase lay open atop it. It was with a great deal of tepidity that she began to gather garments, many picked straight off the floor, and throw them into the case. She took all the necessary socks, underwear, jeans, dresses, blouses, shoes, accessories, and everything. The suitcase was big enough already, but Olive overstuffed it to the point that it took a solid five minutes to force the zipper to close.
When she got it zipped it was off to the airport. Olive was not much one for doing things ahead of time. The taxi she had called earlier had arrived and she went down and kindly asked the man if he could get her bag down from the room. He obliged, and after some coaching by Olive as to how to navigate the turns of the narrow stairs the massive bag made it safely into the trunk of the taxi. They drove now to JFK – Kennedy had always been Olive’s favorite president. Once their she made her way to Gate 3 and checked in and checked her bags and did all of the tedious stuff they make you do at the airport to make sure you’re not a terrorist. After all of this, she finally made it onto the plane.
She found her seat. Coach. Mark had paid for the trip but apparently had not thought it necessary to book a first class seat on the plane. Great. She sat down – not even a window seat. This would be a lovely trip.
About a minute later a man approached her. “So this is the lucky bastard who gets the window seat,” she thought.

and then i stopped. so yeah. maybe i'll start when i actually go to all those european places in the song... hopefully...

oh and p.s. hopefully this thread can be for other people who've similar things to share that too if there isn't already a thread for that...

I really really liked it. I read it a couple of times in the last few days actually. I like how you describe things. It's rich and lovely. Love all the details. I wish you'd write more. I'm now so curious what happens next! God, I really liked it

Well i'm glad you liked it
i guess i'm very critical of myself but i'm not a huge fan of it after rereading it, but maybe one day i'll try and continue it. the point was that she's gonna go to europe and do some stuff and at some point there will be something important and then she'll find something to break her writer's block. i think.