and then comes the story. There was something about Harry's that set him apart from the rest, though.
Prologue: The Hardest (and most boring) Part
Creeeaak. That was the sound of a rusty, overhead lamp, swinging from side to side - disturbed from its natural state of rest - as a result of someone opening the room's portal with unnecessary force.
Flick. No surprise. The electricity wasn't working (after all, this place had been long abandoned)...
And this is where Harry had to draw the line. He sat, face pressed into the palms of his hands, and exhaled his frustration onto the (mostly) blank sheet of paper before him. His 'theory' that physically writing his prose on paper would render him more inspired was now proved wrong (by himself, no less). In the span of a few seconds, a couple of thoughts flashed before him:
I need inspiration.
But what song?
In a typically roundabout way, Harry found himself stuck (and no further into his story than he was at the beginning). His laptop sat, silent and blank, on his haphazardly put-together desk top. A few pens here, a sheaf of paper there - scribbled on, of course, because he left no paper untouched (except for his constant supply, but that didn't count).
To the right of his study was an expansive bookshelf, housing a range of books--
Non-fiction, fiction. Science, Religion. Romance, Adventure. And everything (a combination) else that was in between.
His brief foray into crime fiction had him tangled from the start - what would he write about? He knew nothing on how to commit the perfect murder, or on the standard procedures when it came to detective and/or forensic work. Well, okay, he knew the basics, but nothing that would warrant a good story.
Perhaps he was going about this the wrong way. He stood from his chair and winced at the protesting, aching muscles in his back, then turned to face his bookshelf.
Maybe it's because I'm sitting funny.
or maybe it's because you don't have any talent for writing at all.
The brief, snide thought scared him - writing was his life (or so he thought). He didn't have a talent for anything else. A bit of music here, a touch of art there, and never good enough when it came to academics. Except writing. He had no works published, however, and felt that Writer's Block was an excuse reserved for only those who truly were Writers.
Harry stifled a yawn as he reached for a random book - an exercise he had done many times in the past. Perhaps a little reading would set him into the right state of mind for writing. But just as he was clambering into bed, his eyes caught the time.
4:14 AM glared at him in bold, red digits. Whenever he involved himself in writing - whether it be brainstorming, or writing in itself - he would lose sense of the time (sadly, something that happened often). He had work at nine in the morning, but he was tempted to at least get an idea down on paper (metaphorically speaking, since he'd be typing).
Harry decided to...