Wrote this for a prompt in a time when I couldn't seem to write anymore.
There’ve been too many nights like this, alone in the living room with a cold beer. Songs by Jet or Frank Turner flow out my laptop’s speakers or through my ear buds, as I sit staring at a blank Word screen. It sounded so good in my head, easy even, to write a story about my own dream. Sure, I had already written a a few pages to Imagine You And Me, but it was nowhere near completion. Up until now the story versions of her and me have only interacted with each other, while there was a whole fictional world they could be exploring.
The start was there; they were out on the streets and about to race each other to a café, but now weeks if not months have passed and they still haven’t arrived. The story is about these two people and I’m scared of involving a crowd. Maybe I should have him tell her he wants to turn back but he and I both wouldn’t know a reason for it, and I wouldn’t know how she would react. Should I have something happen to one or both along the way? No, it’s a feel good story, not an action drama. Have the café be closed on arrival, perhaps? No, ‘cause she’d blame him. She’s well aware it’s all made up from what he imagines it to be, everything except her, and he’d probably get smacked for yet another disappointment.
Four more hours have been wasted, and six more beers have been emptied. A lot of ideas popped into my head, but none suitable for an actual story. This was going to be my masterpiece, my crown jewel, this one’s for her and I’m going to perfect it until Stephenie Meyer hangs herself in envy. “That’s all good and everything, but you haven’t written a single word since you sat down.” Is what I said to myself as I pictured an entire, improbable future. “You say you want to be a famous writer, but you’ve never written anything with more than 6,000 words. You lack persistence and discipline.. And beer, you’re out of that too.” I heard ringing in my ears, and closed the laptop with a sigh. Tomorrow’s another day.