Imagine it as a scene from a crappy art film. The camera pulls back, the soundtrack disappears so that all the viewers can hear is the faint rush of traffic down Washington Avenue and the hum of the air conditioner. She is seated at her laptop,

staring blankly at the screen even after having closed the e-mail, slightly off center.

She reopens the web browser, stares at it. Viewers are presented with a short screenshot of her computer (a Dell inspiron 9300, product placement anyone?) and then an uncomfortable close up of her lowered eyes, presumably reading.

"Jason Daniels."

The audience members, surprised by the sound of a human voice, are inspired to root around the bottom of their popcorn bags for un-popped kernels to squeak between their teeth. On the screen they are treated to more riveting inaction.

She opens a word processor and starts typing. She stops, looks around the room. We see what she sees: a none-too-clean dorm room. Two lofted beds. A picture of her boyfriend in the silver frame that he bought her for graduation. A Salvador Dali print. A pair of socks draped over the ladder that leads up to her bed. She picks up the socks, then puts them back. We are to assume that she'll get them later.

Her hair, stubbornly refusing to retain it's trendy slant cut, is pushed behind her ears. She types a few words, intended for a new story, the epic she'd been planning since fifth grade.

She closes the word processor without saving.

"Who do I think I am?" comes the voice over. "I am no Gaiman, no Pratchett, no Zelazny. I am no god of literature to inspire and encourage others."

The heavy silver ring on her finger snags on her headphones as she pushes papers and books around her desk in a gesture of futility. Her fourteen silver bracelets jingle-jangle, a harsh sound against the dull backdrop of the air conditioner.

She frees her finger, cuts a slice of apple with the knife that was sold to her by a friend of a friend for a discount. It is nice to have mob ties, one supposes. A coffee cup full of easy-mac wrappers is pushed aside to reveal a 20-sided die and a pretty metal pillbox.

Opening a new document, she stares at the screen with her hand on the mouse for another few seconds. Now is generally the time when a baby will start squealing in the audience, and there will be something of a tussle while the mother, embarrassed and tired and angry, leaves the theatre.

Those paying attention are again treated to the same screenshot of her computer, and then her fingers as she begins to type: Imagine it as a scene from a crappy art film.

Now the viewers are treated to another voice over. The e-mail that catalyzed the work, from a person she had forgotten.

"...you have a lot to contribute, right? I know you do 'cause you're a better writer than I could ever dream of being. It sucks that I can't read anything you write anymore 'cause you don't post it. People like you inspire people, I just wish I could inspire you as well. It's the only place I feel any worth and it's because of someone I've never even met. Having that much faith... well, I guess that... I don't know. Anyway, I just wanted to try and inspire you a little like you have me. That's what friends are supposed to do, right? Either way, I hope you find peace whatever you decide to do.

Your friend,

Dan."

Thank you, Dan. You've inspired me.