Alexis felt lonely in his flat, staring at his computer screen, willing words to appear. It had been a long day and he was now getting sick of going nowhere. He went and made himself another cup of coffee before returning to the more or less blank screen. His fingers moved nimbly over the keys but in the end, he just held down the delete key until everything was gone.
Another day wasted.
He could see the sun was about to set, hating the thought that another day of his life had been spent trying to make somebody else happy; he hated deadlines with a vengeance claiming that as the writer, he should be the one to say when his next novel was ready, not his stupid publishers. But after a string of successful novels, people just assume so much of you.
He watched the crimson sky filter in and cover the floor, having a strange urge to hurl himself out of the window and swim through the beautiful sky. Bingo. Before he had managed to tear his vision from the sight before him, he had already started typing. He wasn't as yet sure where it would fit into his latest work, but when the inspiration came, he milked it for all that it was worth.
After a couple more cups of coffee, he had finished. The word count told him that so far he had achieved a grand total of over three thousand words. Well that wasn't a lot. Alexis couldn't help but laugh to himself; he could just imagine a whole host of aspiring authors sitting out there churning out a couple of hundred words a day for some meagre audience, thinking that writing a thousand words a day was a lot. It struck him how much fame and fortune had changed him about three times a day, this being the third of that particular day.
If he had been able to develop a time machine and go back and meet himself and tell him about the future and do all sorts of other things that you'd so do with a time machine, he'd have hated himself. That is, his past would hate his present. To avoid any further confusion, he simply admitted to himself that he wasn’t that nice. Not anymore.
He didn't mean to insult anybody; in fact he spent a lot of time getting brand new writers the break they deserved. He considered that his 'charity work'. He had eight writers all grateful to him for all he had done; that meant he had a fair bit of money coming in from them alone. He smiled.
He wanted to do so much more. He was a good man, maybe a little cruel at times and selfish at all times, but generally, good. Not amazing but not terrible. For a man with the ambition that he had, that was frustrating. He would wake up every morning having dreamt of sky-diving or running a marathon, some days would be something as simple as just doing simple tasks on his own or even leave the building that had been his home for the past few years.
He grasped the wheels of his wheelchair and began to move out onto the balcony. As he watched the world walking past below, he let a single tear get past his hard exterior.