That Was Gary.

Gary had been stuck for days.  He sat at his desk and cursed the blank word document on the computer screen in front of him.  In fact, he was pretty sure he was going partially blind from staring at it so much.  Hmm, I must remember to make an appointment with the eye doctor. 

Stay on topic, Gary, he would think to himself about every three and a half minutes.  The task at hand was becoming more impossible by the day.

I'm under contract, he would remind himself, hoping to kick start some inspiration.  But everyone knows that creativity has no time or place.  Gary knew too well.

In just two months, Gary was expected to pump out a brand new, wonderfully captivating novel for the publishing company he worked for.  Gary was running out of time.  He had left the project lying around in the hopes that an idea would spring into his mind at the most unusual of times, as it had for his previous three books.  Unfortunately, the epiphany had not come. 

And now he was screwed.

Gary was tired.  He was fifty-four, graying, and as much as he tried to deny it, he had wrinkles around his eyes and mouth.  Laugh-lines his friend Sylvia liked to call them.  She was just trying to make him feel better, he knew.  In the creased eyes of himself, Gary was old; and becoming more decrepit by the day.  In the eyes of his friends and fans, however, he was a handsome devil whose age only enhanced his masculinity and gentleman debonairness.  He was like George Clooney or Sean Connery; his advanced years only increased his personal appeal.

That was Gary.

For all the money in the world, Gary could not put words to paper for his new book.  He had put a life time worth of work into his last three novels and wasn't sure if he had anything left in him to create another.  That's not to say he didn't love doing it; he thrived for that feeling of accomplishment.  He loved knowing that the words he was pulling from his mind and placing together like a puzzle would result in something that had never existed before.  But, it was never easy.  He often likened writing to sex; exhausting but completely satisfying.

At that moment, however, Gary was creatively abstainate; completely involuntarily, of course.

Did I remember to pick up my dry cleaning? He doodled absent-mindedly on a notepad nearby.  He then scolded himself once again.  Focus!

He let out a frustrated sigh.  All the books these days had some kind of hook; serial killers, or fantastical beasts, vampires, magic and mysteries galore, cliffhangers around every corner.  Gary couldn't do that.  Gary wouldn't do that.  It's not what he was good at.  In fact, he wasn't sure what he was good at.  He never really understood how so many people had come to love him as a writer.  He usually just took a stab in the dark and what came out at the other end of his jumbled-up mind happened to be, well, not so bad.  He had been lucky that way.  He never really thought to consider that it might be talent that made his stories 'not so bad'. 

Oh well, that was Gary.

So far, this is what Gary had come up with for his new book:

It was a dark and stormy night.

After he had read it over thirty-seven times, however, he decided to trash it.  For some reason, it felt a little too familiar.  Other than this small advancement, Gary had nothing; no plot line, no settings or conflicts, no characters, not even a measly little background story for a teeny little background character.  He was doomed.

I'm doomed.

All gary needed, however, was a little inspiration.  A change of scenery would do wonders for his imagination.  Little did he know, however, that a change of scenery was, indeed, in store for him. 

Yes. The upcoming turn of events would help Gary Spencer immensely. 

The End

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