Samuel Rider, the writer, had always looked sick year round. It could be the weather that was always raining, or the constant clogged inbox of his-- but the townspeople of Murdo worried for him. It wasn't just him-- thousands of others had developed the same symptoms, same mannerisms, and they started to wonder if it was contagious.

"It's infectious," a woman whose name is not important gasped. She had printed hundreds of pamphlets and prepared to deliver an awareness message about the new sickness which could spur a nationwide epidemic.

It was later when the detective made an astonishing discovery: all the sickness's victims had been writers and painters.

"Could it be something in their genes?" He wondered.

But the woman had to disagree, because she did not believe in a pre-determined life. She pointed to their levels of sadness.

"More writers and painters have expressed more discontent with their lives than other occupations," she explained, beaming orange from pride. She held up the statistics-- easy to fabricate.

"What about the people with lifelong misery?" Someone challenged.

And they were back to square one.

Then someone came up with the wild idea the sickness had hindered their creative thought.

"Now we are getting somewhere," the detective said, scratching his long beard.

The detective investigated Sam Rider's house, careful not to touch anything. And when he searched the bookshelf, he took notice of something very strange. Each one of his published novels had dust caking on them.

"How long since your last book?" The detective asked.

"I don't know..." Rider coughed, dust creating a tornado in his room. "Three, maybe ten years ago."

"Hmm, interesting," the detective said, scribbling in his notepad.

He did this many times, to the Man Bookers, the amateur landscape painters, the photographers and lithographers... every person suffering from this illness had suppressed creative expression.

And with this problem identified, the detective took his findings to the lab and asked them to develop a cure.

"What an odd ailment," the doctor expressed.

The cure was developed in a year, not because it wasn't lethal and unimportant, but because it had such a complex basis. But the cure was made, and sold on the shelves.

Sam Rider gathered all his energy and drove to the pharmacy, picking up his package wrapped in velvet just for him. When he opened it at home and prepared to down it with a glass of water, he noticed the box had been hollow except for a sheet of paper. He pulled it out and unrolled the sheet.

In big bold letters, read INSTRUCTIONS TO CURE THIS SO-CALLED "CREATIVE BLOCK":
JUST DO IT AND STOP WAITING FOR INSPIRATION.