“This is crap.” Says the writer.
He throws back his head and covers his face with his hands, moaning. His body leans back as well, and with it the chair. Shaking his head carelessly and hard he says it again:
“This is crap.”
He even types it now. Placing his fingers on his dirty white keyboard he click-klacks the words out. The very bottom of the page now reads, ‘This is crap.’
Furiously he highlights everything, two pages of words plus ‘This is crap.’ and harshly presses the ‘backspace’ key. The page instantly turns white. With haste the writer slams on the keyboard with all his fingers, spelling out a jumble of letters, numbers and various punctuation marks:
He saves and closes the document, panting. Unscrewing the cap on a shiny black flask he silently screams obscenities at his Muse, and then, still cursing that frustrating little spirit of Inspiration, downs the contents of the flask. He flings back his head for a second time and grasps his bottom lip with his forefinger and his thumb, and shakes it, groaning and pulling at his hair with the other hand. His groan crescendos and he snaps his head back forward releasing his lip and hair. Giving himself two quick slaps, one to each cheek, the Writer opens another word document and readies his fingers.
He waits some more
He waits, he waits, he waits, hewaits, hewaits,hewaitewhwaitshewaitsehewairtsfssdfpsdffsf.
DAMN IT MUSE!
Taking a deep breath,
he readies his fingers again. No, not just his fingers. He readies both hands as well. They’re poised. Ready to strike. Flexed and nimble. Each crease and groove and joint is still and patient. The Writer sings to him self.
“In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the writer waits tonight.” He chuckles to himself.
He is a tiger, waiting for a meal. He sits in the dark, not moving but still aware of everything around him. He hears the wind wrestling with the leaves outside. He sees the moon through his window, glinting off his shiny black flask. He smells the stale air billowing around his small writing cell, trafficked by the lazy rotating fan. He tastes the saliva in his mouth, gathering at the base with his bottom teeth. And finally, he feels the overall darkness of his room pulse and shudder with the other sensations. They meld together and create a cry. A beautiful orchestration of senses that beckon his Muse, Original Thought.
But it doesn’t come. It doesn’t even leave a message or hint. Instead, the Writer droops his head unwillingly and hits the first few notes of sleep. A second goes by and he is back; he pops up, eyes searching ridiculously to see if he missed his Muse creeping about the lonely room.
But nothing was ever there. She wasn’t coming tonight. She never had planned to. Closing another empty word document with a shaky hand, the writer kisses his flask goodnight, on the mouth, (only to see if he had missed something) and takes off his clothes. Standing with numb legs he walks over to a mirror and glances at the dark outline of his tired reflection. He sighs the last sigh of the night, and groaning the last groan, crawls into bed and tucks himself in.
Only then, right after he falls asleep, Muse lets herself in quietly. After a late night on the town. She quietly undresses as well and carefully crawls into bed next to the writer, whispering apologies for missing another spur of the moment engagement.