A/N: Here's to my first upload on fictionpress! Huzzah! *raises glass* Just a quick one-shot, has nothing to do with anything, and everything to do with everything. (Hint: What I just wrote wasn't supposed to make sense, so don't trouble your brain about it.) So! Let's get this show on the road!
It was times like these--sitting in front of the computer, glass nearby, empty document in front of him--that he really started questioning his existence. Why even do anything when things such as this happened so often. Was this normal? Did this happen to all authors? His deadline was so close, yet he couldn't form the words. Instead, the blank document seemed to mock him, as if it were laughing (though everyone knows text documents cannot laugh--just one for the record) at his unfortunate slump. He didn't seem to be able to do anything creative for the moment, and he despised it with every fiber of his being.
Honestly, how was he supposed to get anything done? He knew he'd just had the idea, it had been what had forced him to walk over to the computer, sit down, and turn it on. What had forced him to joyously brew a fresh pot of coffee, sure his breakthrough would be right around the corner. It was what had made him sit down, fingers at the ready, only to completely blank.
Why was this happening to him? What had he done to deserve this utter and complete lack of inspiration. Nothing had worked--not music, not television (though why he'd sought creative stimulation from that, this writer cannot tell you) not even the nature in his own backyard--and it was indeed a splendid backyard, stretching on as a field of grass, smatterings of trees here and there, bushes, brush, everything that just screamed inspiration--could spark that creative fire.
It would be fine if this were the first time this had happened--he would have considered it a fluke, nothing else. But it wasn't. It seemed that time and time again he sat down and absolutely no words would come to him, his muse having dwindled to over-used cliches and uneventful plot sequences he knew were just pure shit. And even though he knew his entire last book had been full of pure shit, everyone had only complimented him on it. A pat on the back. Millions sold. What kind of world did he live in where people couldn't see the horrible quality it had been? What kind of world just succumbed to buying something because the author was famous, or because it was what was "in?" Dear God, Hollywood had even mad a movie out of it!
But now he wouldn't let himself sink to such lows. No, he wanted to sit down and actually write something wonderful--he wanted to people to see that his writing was not just par, nor was it only above average--it was amazing. He wanted people to read this new novel and realize that his old one paled in its presence, seemed to shrink in size at the very mention of its title!
But he just couldn't think of anything, dammit!
And then he paused, staring at a fixed point on the wall, lost on some stream of thought. Where it took him I can't say, but immediately afterwords he hunched over his keyboard, and began writing.
Pretty short, but I want to end it here. I like this ending. Alright, tell me what you think! Reviews are much loved, and I'm always trying to improve as a writer! Many thanks!