Inspiration
First it comes, then it leaves you alone and sticky without so much as a word in parting.
Sid’s sudden burst of inspiration was hindered only by the fact that he had to take the stairs up to his duplex one at a time, regardless. He slammed the door behind him and made a beeline for the typewriter. Writing for the sake of writing, of course, how could he have forgotten? Back in the day, when he was writing his first book, the only thing he had thought about was the story. Well, the story and the next hit of acid, which in turn helped the story along. That was before the acclaim, before the book signings and party invitations, before his publisher started breathing down his neck to produce something new and of equal magnitude. He didn’t have to worry about that on the island, so why had he been so hung up? Right, it was thanks to all the other stuff he had to worry about on the island. That didn’t matter now, he was floating above it, he had to seize the moment and strangle his muse before it vanished again.
He dug out the two unfinished manuscripts still left in his bag and looked at them. The working titles were simple and straightforward, they were about the same size. The first was headed as ‘Vanilla Coming of Age Tale’ the second was ‘More Science Fiction Bullshit’. His
life had become a bad science fiction story, so he tossed the latter manuscript aside and starting picking through the first. The problems were apparent from page three. Everything was construed to appeal to all manner of demographics, to see more copies sold. The characters, the plot, everything was formulaic. Where was the use in that? Where was the fun? The highest accolade he’d get of that is a prominent place in bookstores. Granted, his first book had lost out on a Pulitzer, which may have been because it was a little too ‘out there’. He had in his hands the makings of would could be a touching classic, but only if he tore it down and rebuilt it as something meaningful. Grinning to himself, Sid paged through the manuscript, needing only a few snatches from each page to be reminded of where he was going with the story. Most of it was going to go out the window, but the framework for something good was there.
He tossed the manuscript aside and fed a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter. For the next several hours, the only sound out of his duplex was the clacking of the old typewriter at work. Exhaustion crept over him before the spark had completely died, making Sid long for some sort of upper for the first time in decades. With nothing in his duplex but assorted booze, he decided just to call it the night.
The next morning he found he had an impressive amount of pages, but when he sat down to continue that spark was gone, just as he feared.
“It’s okay,” he told himself. Even so, he glared at the blank sheet in the typewriter. “Don’t force it.”
If he waited long enough it would come around again. He just had to be patient. For that matter, he had to try not to let his situation weigh him down. Writing was his escape, after all.
