Western Wind

I want to write a poem about the western wind, but I'm completely blocked. In a room full of writers focusing on this prompt, I fear ridicule.  I glance at Mirela's notebook hoping for inspiration. It is blank. She sits there, head braced against her palm, also blocked.
Carla has beautiful hand writing, but, as usual, she's ignoring the prompt and writing about this guy who dumped her. I won't protest because her arms dwarf mine.
I sigh. I think of the Santa Ana winds in California, which is west. It's a dry wind and who wants to read a poem about dryness? Blake Shelton should write a song about the western wind.

I am so inspired by a well written show like Breaking Bad, I call a meeting of all my characters to discuss this idea of chemistry in a story. I work my tail off to create vibrant writing, but too often my characters complain my stories aren't fleshed out and lack a satisfying conclusion. This is the epitome of ungratefulness. Without me, there is no them.
They actually wander off into other writers' pieces. Especially Susan's, who they seem to regard as funnier than me. I submit I have more gravitas.
I had just finished my talk when I became aware of a disturbance in the back. I charged right up to the characters involved and saw they were giving each other noogies. I looked closer and realized they were Keith's characters, sneaking into my talk. I always considered Keith's writing juvenile.
I escorted them out. Boundaries have got to be set among us writers.