The Ramshackle Writer
On the edge of the mountain, silhouetted against the setting sun, there is a small ramshackle cottage made of wood. It looks like any ordinary cottage but it’s the stuff of legends, the owner, the hero of legends.
Or so he thought.
No, that’s terrible.
On the edge of the mountain, silhouetted against the setting sun, there is a small ramshackle cottage made of wood. Wood collected from the forest at the top of the mountain.
Jack pulled the piece of paper from his typewriter, screwed it up and threw it at the bin. It missed, and became just one of a pile of screwed up pieces of paper.
On the edge of the mountain, silhouetted against the setting sun, there is a small ramshackle cottage made of wood. Inside sits a writer with writer’s block.
“How’s it coming?” Nancy, Jack’s long-suffering wife looked over his shoulder. “Oh dear.”
“It’s a bit ‘Dark and stormy night’.”
“I know, but it’s the prompt for today.”
“Can’t you change it?”
“We can but I like to stick with what we’re given.”
“It is only for fun.”
“And to put on my blog. By five o’clock.”
Nancy looked at her watch. 5.25.
“I know. I can backtime it.
“Backtime? Is that even a word?”
“Don’t know. Backdate is.”
“If you used a computer like everyone else, it would underline it if it wasn’t a word.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m a writer, I can make up words.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Why don’t I what?”
“Use a computer like everyone else.”
“It feels… I don’t know. It feels more authentic. Like Stephen King. Very… Secret Window.”
“I know. It’s all a dream and all that. But I’m more productive this way. My ideas flow better.”
“They’re not flowing today.”
“I know, but that’s not the typewriter, it’s the prompt.”
“Then pick another one.”
“No, I’ll persevere.”
Nancy shrugged. “OK, but don’t blame me if…” The rest was lost as she went into the kitchen.
“Another prompt,” Jack mumbled as he pulled out the paper, screwed it up and launched it at the bin. It hit the edge but fell in. He clapped, laughed and put another piece of paper into the typewriter, twisting down the end, until the paper was sticking out a couple of inches from the top.
He sat up straight, hovered his fingers, claw-like, over the keys and started tapping.
It was a dark and stormy night…
Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.
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