Something Thoughful

Nicholas Reid reflects in essay form on general matters and ideas related to literature, history, popular culture and the arts, or just life in general. You are free to agree or disagree with him.                                                     

                                        THE WRITER ALONE AND FRUITLESS

The writer is alone at home. The writer has a deadline to meet. Today the writer is not inspired. What the writer has written so far seems filled with cliches. The writer is annoyed with himself. The writer deletes what he has written.  

The writer is irritable. The writer paces around his study, looks out the window. It’s raining. The writer swears.

The writer goes downstairs. The writer has already had breakfast. The writer makes himself an un-needed toasted cheese sandwich. The writer knows he shouldn’t, but he eats it and paces around downstairs. The writer empties the coffee pot, cold since this morning, and fills his mug with strong black coffee. The writer puts the mug in the microwave, sets it, waits for the “ding”, pulls it out and begins to slurp it down.

The writer is now very dyspeptic. The writer knows too much strong black coffee makes him queasy and even more irritable. It’s almost headache territory. Still no inspiration.

The writer goes back upstairs. It’s raining. The writer looks at some things on You Tube. The writer realises that he’s just wasted about an hour-and-a-half. The writer curses himself. The writer asks himself where the day has gone. The writer wishes his wife would soon come home from her work so that she could persuade him back to his writing.

The rain has eased off a bit. The writer goes for his last resort. He takes his umbrella, puts on his raincoat, opens the front door, locks it behind him and goes on what should have been his morning walk – half-an-hour walking past much of the suburb and through a nice grove of trees. As usual, there are some people walking their dogs through the grove.

The writer is revived by the fresh air as the rain stops. The writer is now in a better mood. The writer walks back home quick-step.

The writer unlocks the door, marches in, puts the umbrella somewhere where it can dry, hangs up the raincoat in the laundry, grits his teeth and, though he hates it, he gets on with it.

There’s a deadline to meet.

            My life.