Phil Penne Creations

#8 - The Writer

 

        Her horse ran down the road…

        You stare deadpan at the words on the screen and let out a disgusted snort.

        Her horse ran down the road?  That’s it? Her horse ran down the road? That’s the best you’ve got? Jesus, you can’t seriously think you’re going to make rent next month writing like that, do you?

        You yawn, press your palms over tired eyes, lean back in your chair, and blow out a long breath through one side of your mouth. You stand and stretch, and your neck, back, right shoulder, and both knees all crack simultaneously, waking your cat from a sound sleep. She glares at you, mews disapprovingly then flops on her side and nods back off.

        You pace back and forth in the tiny studio, groping clumsily for the right words. Horse… what kind of horse? Big, fast. Ran… No. Scurried? Cockroaches scurry. Galloped? Too generic. Hurried? Too bland. Pranced? Too wussy. Jetted? Too… too stupid.

        You move your pacing onto the frayed carpet of the long hallway outside your door. Normally you would have been outside by this time, hoping that something in the mystery of the night air would stir your imagination, but the rain and lightning have made that impossible. Looking for other haunts, you walk up the worn stairs toward the third floor...

 

 

You thought writing was going to be easy?

Think again.

But sometimes you find inspiration in the strangest places...