Another paper flies across the room and sinks into the endless crumpled piles of paper inside a three foot wastbasket. Recycling was never my strong suit. I just can't seem to find the right start for any of my idea's but I have so many of them. And the few times I did find a start. I could not find an ending. It seemed so easy when I was writing " time and timeless again" it all just flowed through me. Like adrenaline when fighting in a war zone. nothing is right. My head seems to be in a different place. I even bought a lake house just to try and clear my head and render new thoughts into my brain. Surely enough. I'm blank. I decided to take a brake. So I call my wife in newyork. "You've reached Jane and Chris Newman's landline, try calling a cellphone next time. Anyways leave a beep." Fucking voicemail. I don't know why we even have a house phone Noone picks it up. I decide to let it go. So I go explore some of this house. Seeming as how I haven't left my study in the two days I've been here. The addict came first nothing exiting just books with at least a pound or two of dust laying over each one. Nothing out of the ordinary. I mean. What old house doesn't have books piled with dust in the addict? The bedrooms. Same. Even the bathroom had at least 15 or so books in it. I think to myself. Maybe another writer lived here before me. Or just maybe just someone with a passion for reading. Either way I think I really would have gotten along with this guy. My last stop was the basement. As I started making my way down the basement staurs the third step down breaks into pieces scaring the shit out of me if we're being honest. Just then the phone rings. My wife I turn around and jog to the phone. Like I said. The wife.
YOU ARE READING
The Book
Non-FictionA one hit wonder writer struggling to create his next book, when he has all these great ideas but doesn't know how to start them. or end them. the crumpled up papers start to pile up in the wastebasket in his lake side summer home. he decides to fin...
