Post by James on Jun 21, 2009 23:34:00 GMT -5
“And sir, what would you like for dessert?”
The scratching of a pen on a small napkin reverberated in the otherwise silent dining booth, splotchy words visible across the material. The hand that was attached to the pen belonged to a skinny young man, his face, slightly sallow and gaunt, was topped with messy dark hair. His fingers were smudged with the blue ink, his clothes slightly creased and untidy, as if he was constantly rushing.
“John! What do you want for dessert?” his wife barked from across the table.
“Huh? What?” John Reuel blurted out, his eyes snapping up from the napkin at once. “Oh, dessert? Umm, well, I think I shall have the umm, the Strawberry Cheesecake please.”
“Thank you, they will be here shortly,” the waiter said, snapping the menus shut and disappearing from sight.
“Please will you not take a pen the next time we’re out?” his wife asked, her tone almost sympathetic.
“I’m sorry, I won’t,” John replied, his head already nodding back down to the napkin in front of him, but it was too late. The bubbling ideas had escaped from his mind, like water through cupped hands. He could hardly read the writing below, the seeping letters joining together into one tuberous mass of ink.
Shaking his head in pity, John turned back to his wife and asked about her friends. He knew she must despise his job at times and he felt her pain but they were still a young lovesick couple at heart. Dessert and drinks came and went and they still talked, hands enclosed within each other before a sharp ring knocked them out of the moment.
“It’s my sister,” she said, snapping the phone shut. “Harry isn’t well, you don’t mind if I go and help her? I’ll make it up to you.”
“Of course not, go and help, it’s what family is for,” John said, rising and placing the bill and tip upon the tray. “I’ll be at home waiting,” John said, kissing his wife as they left the pub, The Lewis & Doyle, together.
“And working, like always,” she replied as she crossed toward the car.
John laughed, as he turned left to begin his walk home, alone with his thoughts once more. Already another idea, another possible project, was exploding into mind, the key points laid out in front of him. And once again John found nothing to write it down with. Realising with horror that he had left his pen at the pub, he turned right at the road sign to Rowling Road, and began to walk briskly in the direction of his house. He vainly tried to cling onto the facts that had emerged in his head but they were already slipping away.
He remembered as he walked the man that had got him into the crazy business of his, many years ago now. Ruffled white hair and a grinning winkled face, Arthur Clarke, a hermit living in a small flat. His advice was simple. Buy a notebook. He had laughed the advice off; he didn’t have such a simple memory to forget the odd flashes of inspiration he had started to receive. Of course that had been half a decade ago, before he had actually started work. Before he had become a writer. Now the floodgates were open constantly, ideas, characters and plots continuously flowing into his mind and overpowering it, zapping it of anything else.
Cutting through Brooks Park, John squeezed between a fence, still trying to get home before his idea would disappear into nothingness, but it was a losing battle. Already a clearly defined protagonist had become nothing more than a wisps of facts and tidbits, a scar upon his arm, which moments ago John knew exactly its relevance. Slowing to a stroll, John turned into his road and accepted the fact that he had only let two possible ideas escaped from him today.
It had been worse before. Last Tuesday he had caught the flu and was unable to put any pen to paper; nine spouts of inspiration went to waste that day. That was what people never understood about writing, the storyteller’s element, the constant ebb and flow of characters and stories pouring into his mind. Sometime he awoke at the oddest hours to scribble something down, only to forget it about at sunrise. Perhaps he did have to invest in a notebook. Even if most ideas ended in nothing more than a scrap of paper in a recycle plant somewhere.
Breaking his musing with the metallic scraping of his key slipping into the keyhole, John stepped into his modest home. They could easily afford more but since John had quit his job to write full time, money was often spent conservatively. Several novels had netted him a nice account, but writing was never about the money. It was about telling the story. The stories that were constantly plaguing his mind, itching to break free and be read to the world. That was his drive.
Creaking floorboards followed each step as he passed into his study, the computer already loaded and ready. Drink in hand, John sat down and prepared to write, staring at the screen that illuminated the keyboard in front of him. But what to write about, the supernatural, the fantastical, an action tale? None jumped out at him. What story needed to be told by his fingers now? What characters needed to be released? What ideas presented to the world? None jumped out at him, none but one.
It was ludicrous. It was ironic. It was brilliant. There was one story that needed to be told. Not the story of the general or the farmer or the student, those had been told before. Only one story had not been told before. Always in the shadows, controlling everything to their whim and will. It was their story that now needed to be told, the tale of the writer. But how to begin?
A thought suddenly crossed John’s mind that caused him to chuckle loudly, causing the cat to bolt from the room. Of course, it was so simple. Reaching for the keyboard he began to write.
“And sir, what would you like for dessert?”
((Horrible title, but that's was the only thing I could think of. Sue me.))
The scratching of a pen on a small napkin reverberated in the otherwise silent dining booth, splotchy words visible across the material. The hand that was attached to the pen belonged to a skinny young man, his face, slightly sallow and gaunt, was topped with messy dark hair. His fingers were smudged with the blue ink, his clothes slightly creased and untidy, as if he was constantly rushing.
“John! What do you want for dessert?” his wife barked from across the table.
“Huh? What?” John Reuel blurted out, his eyes snapping up from the napkin at once. “Oh, dessert? Umm, well, I think I shall have the umm, the Strawberry Cheesecake please.”
“Thank you, they will be here shortly,” the waiter said, snapping the menus shut and disappearing from sight.
“Please will you not take a pen the next time we’re out?” his wife asked, her tone almost sympathetic.
“I’m sorry, I won’t,” John replied, his head already nodding back down to the napkin in front of him, but it was too late. The bubbling ideas had escaped from his mind, like water through cupped hands. He could hardly read the writing below, the seeping letters joining together into one tuberous mass of ink.
Shaking his head in pity, John turned back to his wife and asked about her friends. He knew she must despise his job at times and he felt her pain but they were still a young lovesick couple at heart. Dessert and drinks came and went and they still talked, hands enclosed within each other before a sharp ring knocked them out of the moment.
“It’s my sister,” she said, snapping the phone shut. “Harry isn’t well, you don’t mind if I go and help her? I’ll make it up to you.”
“Of course not, go and help, it’s what family is for,” John said, rising and placing the bill and tip upon the tray. “I’ll be at home waiting,” John said, kissing his wife as they left the pub, The Lewis & Doyle, together.
“And working, like always,” she replied as she crossed toward the car.
John laughed, as he turned left to begin his walk home, alone with his thoughts once more. Already another idea, another possible project, was exploding into mind, the key points laid out in front of him. And once again John found nothing to write it down with. Realising with horror that he had left his pen at the pub, he turned right at the road sign to Rowling Road, and began to walk briskly in the direction of his house. He vainly tried to cling onto the facts that had emerged in his head but they were already slipping away.
He remembered as he walked the man that had got him into the crazy business of his, many years ago now. Ruffled white hair and a grinning winkled face, Arthur Clarke, a hermit living in a small flat. His advice was simple. Buy a notebook. He had laughed the advice off; he didn’t have such a simple memory to forget the odd flashes of inspiration he had started to receive. Of course that had been half a decade ago, before he had actually started work. Before he had become a writer. Now the floodgates were open constantly, ideas, characters and plots continuously flowing into his mind and overpowering it, zapping it of anything else.
Cutting through Brooks Park, John squeezed between a fence, still trying to get home before his idea would disappear into nothingness, but it was a losing battle. Already a clearly defined protagonist had become nothing more than a wisps of facts and tidbits, a scar upon his arm, which moments ago John knew exactly its relevance. Slowing to a stroll, John turned into his road and accepted the fact that he had only let two possible ideas escaped from him today.
It had been worse before. Last Tuesday he had caught the flu and was unable to put any pen to paper; nine spouts of inspiration went to waste that day. That was what people never understood about writing, the storyteller’s element, the constant ebb and flow of characters and stories pouring into his mind. Sometime he awoke at the oddest hours to scribble something down, only to forget it about at sunrise. Perhaps he did have to invest in a notebook. Even if most ideas ended in nothing more than a scrap of paper in a recycle plant somewhere.
Breaking his musing with the metallic scraping of his key slipping into the keyhole, John stepped into his modest home. They could easily afford more but since John had quit his job to write full time, money was often spent conservatively. Several novels had netted him a nice account, but writing was never about the money. It was about telling the story. The stories that were constantly plaguing his mind, itching to break free and be read to the world. That was his drive.
Creaking floorboards followed each step as he passed into his study, the computer already loaded and ready. Drink in hand, John sat down and prepared to write, staring at the screen that illuminated the keyboard in front of him. But what to write about, the supernatural, the fantastical, an action tale? None jumped out at him. What story needed to be told by his fingers now? What characters needed to be released? What ideas presented to the world? None jumped out at him, none but one.
It was ludicrous. It was ironic. It was brilliant. There was one story that needed to be told. Not the story of the general or the farmer or the student, those had been told before. Only one story had not been told before. Always in the shadows, controlling everything to their whim and will. It was their story that now needed to be told, the tale of the writer. But how to begin?
A thought suddenly crossed John’s mind that caused him to chuckle loudly, causing the cat to bolt from the room. Of course, it was so simple. Reaching for the keyboard he began to write.
“And sir, what would you like for dessert?”
((Horrible title, but that's was the only thing I could think of. Sue me.))
