The man who wrote nothing

What to write? What shall I write?
This was the thought, the one question that had the man stumped. Ten cups of the blackest coffee later, he would still be pondering this - the most complex of mysteries that has rocked the human race since the cradle of birth.
He looked down and saw something on his unblemished writing paper.
It was a blemish. A dot. A big fat thumbprint of a pencil smudge.
Where did this come from? Was it blatant? Was he the culprit...? Yes, he was. Another mindless doodling on an otherwise undoodled writing paper. He gave himself a mental kick in the brain for this, for not catching himself in the act. And then swore sharply, for noticing such an unimportant act. When after all, his focus should be on the double lines.
That’s right, he thought. Relax and focus. Allow yourself to fall trance-like into writer’s garden. Concentrate on the lines. Look deep between them and imagine the words. Delve into the Black River of nothingness and float up with the plot. Bring them into being. Pound them into author’s paradise.
The man still wrote nothing, no matter how hard he stared at his writing paper. He would win medals if paper staring became an international sport, and could maintain this pose for hours on end. And no wonder, he had had enough practice sessions, which ran into days - months even.
This was a strange situation he had found himself in. He had burned a copious amount of time and energy in doing this book. He had steeled himself, dedicated himself to the cause. But nothing came, and the hard toil of doing nothing became physically exhausting.
But why? Where did it all go so wrong, he wondered? He could not comprehend this block. At any angle. He had his fair share of inspirational walks, which in turn implanted a creative throbbing. He was reasonably bright enough, he thought, to cultivate an artistic indifference. However, the walks came to an abrupt halt when he became environmentally aware and feared that the heinous fume s emitted by cars, lorries, and people with stupid haircuts were corrupting his mind. And when he realized that he had not gone out the front door for three months, the decision was made to write the book, his magnum opus.
Or perhaps the damage had already been done. Perhaps the fumes of those damn evil machines, and the "normal" people that drove them, had already seeped in and warped his juices - causing untold nonsense to his creative endeavors.
Or perhaps not. Maybe this was not the fault of natural causes...but maybe a supernatural concern. It made sense, mainly in part that this was, he felt, a malicious act. A diabolical deed of immense proportions, being performed on him by a super being, a bug-eyed reptilian devil crab worshipper who gets his kicks from preventing aspiring novelists from getting off the starting block. Maybe it was watching him right now, he thought. Maybe it had been watching him right from the start. Taping his torture on camcorder, so that he and his fellow crab worshippin g friends could have something to watch on a Sunday night between beers and laugh’s.
But this was an extremely bizarre notion, which once the man gave serious consideration, was dismissed. He had learned a lot about himself over the past few months, and not all of it was nice. He came to the startling conclusion recently that the writing paper somehow reflected his own life at this point, or at least his personality. One big empty page. Nothing. A reference for life. This disturbed him greatly. And it was around about this time that he took to swinging his cat around his head by her tail.