On Writing

The author sat with a heavy sigh, the springs of his chair groaning as if in protest at his weight. He looked at the screen before him, at the accusing blankness of the page and the blinking of the cursor upon it.

"Chapter 1" he typed, and then hit return twice to begin a new line.

He sat back in his chair (to further metallic twinges of annoyance) and flicked through the pages of his novel outline,

He went back to his work in progress and highlighted what he'd typed so far, then hit the "Bold" button.

Chapter 1

his screen said.

He twirled a bit in his chair, then twirled back and frowned, decided it was time to get back to business.

He typed an opening sentence.

"It started with a growing dissatisfaction," he typed, then paused with his fingers hovering over his expensive wireless keyboard.

Then he deleted what he'd written in three angry key strokes.

He glanced at the system clock in the corner of his screen: 23:45 it said, in small black numerals that seemed to swim slightly when seen through the scrim of tiredness that glazed his eyes.

He sighed again and stood up quickly, his chair rolling back and bumping into the desk behind him. He switched his monitor off, ending the accusing blankness of the page beneath the lonely Chapter 1.

He went to bed, and when sleep came it was in spite of his frustration.