No words, No typing, No Story.

He sat and looked at the screen.

 It was just like the big heavy old
fashioned typewriters. Didn't matter if it was a fully manual or
fancy electric. The pared down cast iron ones that weigh a ton or the big bulky plastic body plug in ones that weighed about the same. There really wasn't much difference. If you didn't type, no words were put down. Put down in ink on paper or in pixels on a screen. No typing, no words. No words, no story. No story... well then there was no point. He got up and  walked away.

In the kitchen he put the kettle on. Then decided instead of tea, he
wanted some chai. He unplugged the kettle, then fetched the the
pre-brewed organic chai in a box and some milk from the fridge. Half a mug of chai, fill with milk. Into the microwave, 2 minutes on high. Ding! Stir before withdrawing the mug, take a sip and burn the tip of the tongue. Back into the office and in front of the computer once more.

 He sat and looked at the screen

So, we were at no typing, no words, no story. This is true and untrue at the same time. If you don't type, no words are put down. No words, there is nothing to read as a story. On the other hand, you can have a story to tell, but not have the words to convey what you wish to say, to spark the readers mind's eye. Then again, you can type all the words you like but still  have no story told. True and untrue. It can go either way sometimes. But the worse is no story. No story, no vision no words, no typing.  If there is no vision to be created within a readers imagination, it really isn't a story then. More like a report or a dictionary. You could say no story, no words, no typing, and it would be just as true. Or untrue. But first, one has to type something

This was one of those times. He sat and looked at the screen.

 There were no words typed. It wasn't that he had no words, it was he had no story. A lack of a story to tell meant no point in typing any words. He thought about it, then simply typed a bunch of words at random. It didn't work. They made sense as words tend to do, but only on their own. Together his random words made no sense. No structure, nothing to tie them together. Words strung together that make no sense, will fail to spark any image creation in most reader's minds. I say most readers, because no matter what, there is always one, sometimes two that fall out of the norm. Perhaps these one or two would call it cyberpunk or worse, poetry. This time it was not the case for either, he didn't care for poetry and didn't know what was really meant by cyberpunk anyway. So he had no story to tell and it was a story he wanted. Well perhaps he no words either. It was hard to tell since he had nothing to say. Or type. 

He sat and looked at the screen with the random words. Did he see a pattern in their randomness? He retyped the words on a new line but in a different random order. It still didn't work. The string of words still made no sense, and he could see no pattern. What had made him pick these words? He though about each one individually. The meaning of each. The way one word can be strung together with another. He thought about the way the words can be said. How stressing some parts over others can change the mood that can be read into the word or words. Why had he picked these words in particular? Was it because they won't work together? Was it purely random as he first attempted to do, or was he subconsciously trying to tell himself something? Well if he was, it didn't work since the words were just too random to convey any meaning for himself, let alone a reader. He sat and looked at the two lines of random words repeated. Starting a third line he picked a new word meaning the same thing for each of the  words in the line above. Then an a fourth line, he repeated each replaced word again, but in a random order. It still didn't work. The words made no sense strung together, there was no pattern, and he still had no story

With a sigh, he picked up his mug, but it was already empty. He sat and debated with himself over making another cup. A debate he lost so another cup was made and popped into the microwave. He stood and stared out the window listening to muted rumble of the traffic seven stories below him. How ironic he thought. Seven stories between him and the street yet not one would present itself on the glowing screen in the other room. Well you had to type it first and in order to type it, you had to imagine it. So actually imagining it would come first, not the typing. Or would the story be first? His musings were interrupted by a Ding! and once again he burnt the already sensitive tip of his tongue on too hot chai. 

Back in the office he sat and looked at the screen.

With a frown, he held down the 'Delete' button until the nonsensical words were... well... deleted. Now he sat and stared at the blank screen. It was no better, no help at all. He looked out the window in his little office at the commercial plaza across the street. The parking lot was filled with cars, people walking to or from these cars.  Some carried bags, other carried boxes. Some carried nothing. There were women carrying purses as women are wont to do. The coffee shop was busy, as it almost always was. Traffic flowed by in both directions on this particular sunny afternoon

He turned back and looked at the still blank screen. Resisting the urge to just type random words, he took a sip of the cooling chai. He frowned, turned the monitor off, poured the chai into a travel mug and went outside. After all, if you have no story, no words, why type anything at all?

The End

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