The story so far:
I felt his presence behind me. The air in the room turned deathly cold. He spoke before I could even turn around to face him.
The Literary God.
"Your struggle with how to structure words will soon cease to exist. Writers block will no longer haunt you. Turn around."
When I completely faced him he grabbed me by my throat with his left hand and squeezed. I struggled to breathe. With his right hand took a deep drag of the blackest pen I had ever seen.
He loosened his grip, and as I gasped he blew a heavy, black smoke down my throat into my lungs. When he was done he put the pen in my hands.
A strange euphoria swept over me. I watched him slowly disappear. He spoke these eternal words.
""Give thanks to the mighty pen, which yields mental medicine allowing a select few to self-medicate."
New thoughts and ideas instantly pushed my brain to overcapacity.
I knew that I would never be the same again.