The Writer’s Day

writer's day

It’s no big deal, he told himself. He had done it before, he could do it again.

He just had to sit and write.

Remembering an old article about the effects of crouching on your chair, he pulled in a little closer to the table. Now he felt comfortable. He moved a frantic finger across the trackpad, cursing the stupid auto-lock system. He entered his password and into his document.

Blank screen. As he placed his fingers over the keys, he noticed how dirty they were. Last night’s mustard lingered near the speakers where he had put his ear to check if they worked at all. He tried to wipe off the mess with his fingers making it worse. With a deep sigh, he stood and walked over to his cupboard to pick up a wet cloth.

He yanked the wooden door to see a pile of smelly underwear, masking a couple of laundered shirts and jeans that hadn’t seen soap in ages.

Pushing it all aside, he began looking for the cloth. After about ten minutes of rummaging, he decided he’d rather clean his cupboard first.

And so he began.

As he rearranged his clothes, he found the old letters from his once-girlfriend. She had broken his heart so bad that he could neither forget her nor hate her. He had hidden the letters to keep himself from falling into depression again.

He opened them, nevertheless, and sat poring over her words of endearment, smiling at the way she circled the dots of her ‘i’s and curled her ‘l’s. He loved her handwriting.

Before he knew it, tears started streaming down his eyes. How could she have left him? All of a sudden, he realised he hadn’t eaten all day.

Maybe I’ll be fine if I get something to eat, he thought. He walked over to the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator. There was some bread left over from two days ago, and he grabbed them without grace. Tossing a couple of slices into the toaster, he poured himself a large cup of coffee.

Five minutes later, he was back tapping on his trackpad, cursing the auto-lock feature. He took one look at the blank page. And then at the wall on his right. It flaunted covers of the New York Times Bestseller, with his name flashed in big golden letters.

That was five years ago. He had emptied his soul into that book, and it had paid off. But every day since then had been nothing but a blank page. The day his love stopped loving him, words did too.

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