As many know, the art of writing is like any art...it requires inspiration. As I sit I can feel an emptiness fill my brain...it begins to choke me and I can hardly breath.
I stare at the page before me. It stares back..."Well?" it asks...I do not have an answer.
Finally, in frustration, the page jumps out from the computer and sits on my desk and lights a cigarette.
Page: "Listen buddy, I don't have all day. Write something or turn me off."
Me: "What do you care? Its not like you're going somewhere or have something to do. Just sit and wait and it'll come to me."
Page: "Oh, so I'm just some mindless forum for you to spout that psycho-crime babble to? Do you have any idea how many people actually write on a daily basis? A whole lot. And, unlike you, they have talent."
Me: "You don't think I have talent?"
Page: "Sure. If you call giving people nightmares talent, then yea, you've got it."
Me: "I write on other things besides crime! You can't just say my work is exclusively creepy..."
Page: "Yea...sex. That's what everyone wants to know about you..."
Me: "But I know those things well...I've gotten some good responses from people."
Page: "They're probably afraid of you ."
Me: "You're an asshole."
Page: "I'm going now. I'm going to find someone with real talent. Not some freak who sits in the dark thinking about sex and violence all day long...(laughing)...creep."
The page put his cigarette out on my hand and jumped back into the screen, but not before throwing me a finger...