"This is child play," the writer thought to himself as he stared at the blank pice of paper. "Why do they insist that I write such nonsense? I've been doing this for how long now and this is all they think I'm able to do? I'll show them. I'll write like a mad man. What will they have to show of themselves. I'll write the best and brightest page out there!"
He began to type away at the keyboard. Clicking and clacking away at the keys. He even tried to distract himself by watching a film on a separate screen in the room.
"That will antagonize them. I won't even give it my full attention. That will show them for sure."
He paused for a moment to admire the brilliant action scene on the television. The music and the filming together acted as his muse and he basked in it, soaking it in as his inspiration.
He looked back to the blank page. He noticed it had filled up. His eyes flittered back to the other screen. The distraction beckoned him to take his gaze away.
"No," he thought, moving his focus back to the keyboard. "I must continue writing. In only a moments time I will finish this page. It will be the end of the page and then I can the film the full attention it demands."
Although a new habit in truth, writing so much so often exhausted him. But he needed to exercise those muscles. The fingers, the brain, they were all muscles to him. And they could all be trained. That was the key. If he wanted to succeed at the ultimate goal, his writing muscles would have to be in tip top shape. But now he only felt them weakening.
He let the distraction grasp him once again. The writer was fighting a war against distraction, yet he let it win this time. It may win this battle, but he would win the war. He would continue to write every day just to prove to himself that he could. He needed to prove to himself that he could do it before he could prove it to the world.
He laboriously continued away at the keyboard, nearing his new goal.
"I'm going to get it. And then when I'm done, I'm going to do it all over again. This is not my first page, nor will it be my last. I will continue until I finish. I don't know what I'm doing yet, but some day I will. When I do I will only keep striving to better myself." That is the curse of the writer. He knew that now. If he wanted to continue to call himself a writer, he would have to take that curse on himself. But he wouldn't let that bother him now. He was near the end of his goal. And when he finished he would celebrate. On the last line he would write one word.
"Success."
He began to type away at the keyboard. Clicking and clacking away at the keys. He even tried to distract himself by watching a film on a separate screen in the room.
"That will antagonize them. I won't even give it my full attention. That will show them for sure."
He paused for a moment to admire the brilliant action scene on the television. The music and the filming together acted as his muse and he basked in it, soaking it in as his inspiration.
He looked back to the blank page. He noticed it had filled up. His eyes flittered back to the other screen. The distraction beckoned him to take his gaze away.
"No," he thought, moving his focus back to the keyboard. "I must continue writing. In only a moments time I will finish this page. It will be the end of the page and then I can the film the full attention it demands."
Although a new habit in truth, writing so much so often exhausted him. But he needed to exercise those muscles. The fingers, the brain, they were all muscles to him. And they could all be trained. That was the key. If he wanted to succeed at the ultimate goal, his writing muscles would have to be in tip top shape. But now he only felt them weakening.
He let the distraction grasp him once again. The writer was fighting a war against distraction, yet he let it win this time. It may win this battle, but he would win the war. He would continue to write every day just to prove to himself that he could. He needed to prove to himself that he could do it before he could prove it to the world.
He laboriously continued away at the keyboard, nearing his new goal.
"I'm going to get it. And then when I'm done, I'm going to do it all over again. This is not my first page, nor will it be my last. I will continue until I finish. I don't know what I'm doing yet, but some day I will. When I do I will only keep striving to better myself." That is the curse of the writer. He knew that now. If he wanted to continue to call himself a writer, he would have to take that curse on himself. But he wouldn't let that bother him now. He was near the end of his goal. And when he finished he would celebrate. On the last line he would write one word.
"Success."
