A/N: This is semi-autobiographical, but an event that has yet to take place. The part that's most urealistic is the part about deleting things... I definetly don't do that when it comes to computers. Comments and criticisms are appreciated, as always.
Musings on a Writer's Night
If he had been writing on a piece of paper like in the old days, he would have crumpled it up and tossed it on the floor. Instead, though, his fingers reached out to press two keys: Ctrl + A. Then he hit the Backspace button and began anew.
The young writer blinked wearily, his eyes feeling strained. For the third time, he accessed the control panel and adjusted the laptop screen's brightness down a little. He knew it wouldn't make much difference, and he really needed to give his eyes a break, but it couldn't be helped.
Trey Scott was the perfect student. He always did his homework, always got good grades, never skipped a class, never skipped a meal, and always got eight hours of sleep a night. But this past week had been different. Little by little, he had cut down on sleep to make time for writing. He had cut out lunch in favor of his computer, and had even been so consumed by his work that he had, by mistake, missed an entire class. Strangely, he felt no regret about it, though. Breaking the cycle of perfection that he had always expected of himself felt good.
Of course, he couldn't stray from trying to achieve perfection entirely. His book was nearly complete, but it was not yet perfect. A word here and there had to be changed, some dialogue tweaked, and a chapter renamed. Minor inconsistencies had to be found and dealt with. And, still, the final line had to be added. He was saving that for last.
His friends were worried about him, he knew. But they couldn't really complain. It wasn't as though he was making bad choices compared to them. He wasn't about to go to bed at 2am and wake up just four hours later. He wasn't going to skip a meal and use that as an excuse to binge on junk food later.
But he was driving himself harder than he ever normally did. He always got his work done, but that was because he worked steadily and consistently – he didn't exert himself to such extremes that he would put his health at risk. Now, though, was different. A force he had not expected had taken hold of him and driven him to finish.
He was so close.
His muse, normally so kind and patient, had sensed how close he had become. She had seen the end of the long journey and she urged him towards it, ignoring his feeble protests of the pointlessness of it all. Even when he did finish, that didn't mean something magical would take place. It wouldn't be instantly published, become an instant bestseller, or become an instant classic. It was not perfect. It was not good enough. And yet, he had to finish. She told him so.
He was so close.
As his mind wavered, his fingers continued typing of their own accord. They knew the story as well as he did. His whole body knew it, by now. So he typed without really thinking, and suddenly, he blinked, looked at the screen, and it was there. It was done.
Immediately, the surreal atmosphere of the room disappeared and he was alone. The voice of his muse was gone. He stared blankly at the last sentence on the page, and then moved the mouse to the upper right corner of the screen and hit "Close". A message came up asking if he wanted to save. The writer stared at the message blankly. For a moment, the pointer hovered over the "Yes" button. Then, he jolted the mouse to the right and pressed "No."
One more night. He would finish this the next night. His muse would come again, and urge him on to the end.
One more night.
The young, prospective author shut down the computer and went to climb into bed, not bothering to change or brush his teeth. Tomorrow it would be done.
He was so close.