Fictitious 52 #4

Next up: "Driven by Distraction"

 The screen is blank. Of course, it always starts out this way. Once again he is staring at a sheet of nothing. Or, to look at it more positively, a sheet of potential. A sheet of paper already full of words, a screen already full of words, these are things that have nothing left to be said. And so a blank page is a necessity.

And yet, without an idea all that potential is worth nothing. And that's there he finds himself today. Running low on energy, intellect, and insight. He simply stares blankly, fingers hovering over the keyboard. As if just sitting there and staring will produce results. He waits for an idea to hover low enough for him to reach up and grab it. To press it against the screen and then pin it there with his words. As if it were a butterfly being added to his collection.

But it doesn't come. He sits there now, one hand clenching the arm of his chair, the other massaging his brow. He inhales deeply and stands. He grabs his mug and walks to his kitchen. He pours himself a cup of stale coffee. He walks back down the hall back towards his room, but turns back around before reaching it. He walks back to the kitchen, then turns again. He paces, back and forth, back and forth, between kitchen and bedroom trying futilely to shake something free in his head, all the while draining the cup dry of its black contents.

He abandons his circuit, cutting off and heading to the living room. Maybe a break is what is needed, so he flops down on his couch and picks up the remote. He flips on the TV and turns to the movie channels. Something new is on he's wanted to see, but hasn't yet. So he sits there. For an hour. For two. For two and a half. It was a good film, and it's been a substantial break, he realizes as it ends. Maybe now, he thinks, he'll be able to get something done.

But of course, he doesn't. That would be much too easy, wouldn't it? No, instead he finds himself staring straight ahead, once more, at nothing. Looking into an infinite pool of things that are not but could be and drinking not one drop of it. He taps out a few words, but none of them feel right. He can't build off of them, not today at least. Maybe they'll be good ideas someday, but for now they're just in the way. Highlight. Backspace. And once again there is nothing but white space and gray border. He groans, dips his head low, and covers his face with his palms, hiding away from the work he should be doing.

When did he start thinking of it as work? It was never a chore before. However, now that it's something that he must do, it has become infinitely harder to accomplish. It's all fun and games until you have to have fun and play games. Games. Maybe he'll go do some of that. It's always served as an inspirational source before. Why not now?

And so he sits down in front of the TV again and turns on whatever he last had in. He falls into this world for a few hours of fun. He was close to the conclusion at the end of his last session, and this makes for quite the challenge during this one. The climax of the game is fairly long, so now he finds himself in a three-way battle. On one front he is pitting his skills against the obstacles thrown at him by the game itself, and doing admirably. This makes the second front an even more difficult battle, however, for he is also fighting against himself. His willpower is waging war with the combined forces of curiosity and procrastination. He tries as hard as he can, but alas, they are too powerful. HE is unable to extract himself from the game's grasp until he sees the ending credits roll on the screen. Four hours have passed since he started the game, almost twelve since he sat down to write. Not word one has reached the page and time is quickly running short.

He stands and stretches out his muscles. He's had a good, long, solid block of time to game now, surely some creative juices are flowing. Sure enough, when he sits in front of his computer again, his fingers fly across the keyboard. Word upon word flows from his mind onto the blank canvas of his screen with so little effort it is astounding. The only problem is that none of these words are for a story of his creation. As lovely as the review he has written up is, it's not what he's supposed to be doing.

Okay, now it's time to get serious. He decides not to move from where he sits until his work is completed. And so, he sits there. And he sits there. And he continues to sit there doing absolutely nothing. Maybe he should check his e-mail since he's in front of the computer. And maybe check a few of his favorite sites. And since he's written up this review, he might as well post it.

Two hours later he discovers it's two hours later. He also figures that maybe opening up the internet is not a particularly wise decision to crack open the internet when he is having an issue with productivity.

He sighs. It looks as if there is nothing to be done about it. Today simply will not be a productive day. He has failed himself. Still, he is no quitter, the least he can do is give it one final attempt before he hangs it up and calls it a night. So he places his hands over his keyboard and waits to see where they take him.

T-h-e s-c-r-e-e-n i-s b-l-a-n-k...

An obvious statement, but not one he can do much with. Unless... No, that would be cheating.

“Of course, it always starts out that way.”

Forget cheating. All's fair in love, war, and story writing.