#AmWriting #Fiction #IndieAuthor
Derek sat at his computer, staring at the flashing cursor that taunted him at the bottom of his unfinished manuscript. His hands hovered just above the keys as though he may have a thought at any moment, and need to write quickly, but the last three months had proven that it wasn’t happening. Not for him. Not yet.
After the second hour of ‘writing,’ Derek saved the file, and walked away from the keyboard once more. He felt the tired and sad level of defeat within him that could only come with not writing a single word in so long.
“That’s it! I’m a hack! I’m washed up!” He called out as he walked through the house.
“You’re not washed up, you’re just trying too hard,” Sharon told him as he entered the kitchen. “Your inspiration will come before you know it. It always does. You can’t force it.”
“How do you know?” He sneered at her. “You’re no author, you never write if you can help it.”
“Because we’ve been through this before.” Sharon said, “I’m not the writer, you are, start acting like one and focus. Quit your sulking and just listen to me!”
“Sharon, we’ve been over this. You are not my muse. You’ve never been my muse.” Derek snapped.
“If that’s how you feel, then I guess you’ll never be able to write again.” She said as she vanished.
Sharon was gone, and Derek was so angry he threw the dishes, and destroyed his kitchen. He knew the truth. She was his muse, and had always been his muse. He cried out in suffering from a crumpled heap on the floor of the kitchen, and didn’t move again.