He sits smoking by the hedge, looking out at the setting sun. A deep gloom in the sky is slowly seeping towards it. The wind's dropped, the silence around him pregnant with a stifling stillness.
If my thoughts were pennies, I'd would be sitting in a nickel jungle. All that sheen would mean nothing to me, for I would be dying. Terribly. From a murderous headache. From the clamour of my own thoughts.
He sighs, flicks the cigarette stub away and runs his hand through his hair. His back has begun to complain about his posture. The pinprick of strain in his right shoulder is ready to bloom into an insistent stain of pain well into whatever is left of this day.
Why should it be a woman with a writer's block? Why not a young girl training herself to become a secret dervish? Is a dark and stormy night as stereotypical as it's made out to be? Makes for an easy opening though. An attractive Anglo-Saxon woman suffering from a steady, predictable marriage? It won't be so difficult to find her release in the hands of a deaf and blind Malayalee masseur on a muggy July noon in an affluent Mumbai suburb, hmm? Release her from her creative block, and kindly award her a liberating crack in the floodgate staunching all that passion welling up in her... Perhaps he would start with the massage scene itself. Some challenge.
He's aware of the computer plugged in, warm with waiting, the cursor on the screen in a steady rhythm for the last one hour, at the first imaginary line of his novel. His first one. If he would just stop thinking of it and get to writing it.