Marshall Writes a Book

Chapter 1: Every Other Day

"MARSHALL! MARSHALL! YOU RUINED MY LIFE MARSHALL!"

Marshall wakes up and looks around. There's no one around. He lets out a sigh of relief. He turns to the clock. 11.28 in the morning. He lays on his bed for a while thinking. He doesn't really know what he is thinking about though.

He gets up. There are boxes everywhere. He really needs to fix this place up he thinks. Laughs over the thought a moment later and heads to the shower. Marshall really likes his new place. It's small but comforting somehow. There's this beautiful view of the lake from the window. Great spot to sit for some late night contemplation. Also, there's the fact that he lives alone which he enjoys to a great extent. Gives him room to just think and be himself.

There's this small place nearby. They serve the best pancakes. Marshall biting on his pancakes and going through the pictures his ex-wife posted of her vacation on her Facebook. He's still not sure whether he hates her or not. Suddenly the phone rings. It's his publisher. Calling to check in on the progress of the book. Marshall lets him know that he is working on it. He lied. He hasn't even started yet. He doesn't really know how to. He's been trying really hard to come up with something. Anything. But so far the result has been an absolute zero.

Finishing his breakfast, he goes out for a stroll around the town. He likes New Orleans. He always wanted to live here for some odd reason. Actually he would have loved any place that is not New York. The city life never really attracted him that much. He just wanted to live in a new place filled with unknown characters. He would get to be just another face in the crowd without the fear of having to randomly socialize.

Marshall stops at a random burger stand. Orders a chicken cheese burger. Cheese, probably the only thing he loves more than a life of liberty. He walks home after finishing.

He opens the door and falls right onto the bed. He is not tired, just lazy. He doesn't really have much to do. He feels like working though. Gets up and turns the laptop on. Stares blankly at the laptop screen for what seems like an hour or so until his patience runs out. He closes the laptop and goes back to lying on the bed. Closes his eyes and falls asleep.

"Mail. You have mail Mr. Doherty" shouts the mailman from the door.

Marshall gets up. Takes his mail. Closes the door with a big fake smile hiding his annoyance the best he can.

It's not much of a mail. A letter related to the divorce and its various procedures. The process of finalizing a divorce has always confused him. Two people don't want to be together and that should be all of it he thinks. There should not be all these additional complications. The sleep is all gone. Marshall realizes he should get back to working or trying at least. However, he feels like he needs to have some coffee.

It's a beautiful café close from his home decorated in style of the medieval era. Or, as Marshall likes to call it "The presumed medieval era." He is sitting in one corner staring at the park just opposite to the café while sipping on his coffee. His laptop just sitting on the table hopelessly. He changes his gaze. Looks around the café. A part of him tells him that he is being watched. He doesn't know how but he is. Or, maybe he is just being cynical he thinks to himself and rules out the possibility. He calls the waiter asking for the bill. He gets out of the café and just stands there for a while. He wanted to walk in the park but carrying the laptop became an issue. So, he just headed home in hopes of spending another hopeless night with zero productivity.

Late into the night, he is sitting on his chair by the window staring at the lake. He is thinking about past stuffs. All that has gone wrong. How passionate he used to be about his work once. Words used to come to him so easily. He sighs to the notion of how things change with time. He feels sleepy, but doesn't feel like going to sleep yet. He wants to think more. Writers have a weird obsession over thinking. Marshall is no different. He thinks a lot, but often struggles to really remember them later on or even relate them to each other. This used to bug him once. Doesn't anymore though.

He finally gives in to his brain's constant indications asking for a breather. Lies down. He stares at the roof trying to fall asleep awaiting tomorrow which he knows will be like every other day but a deep portion of his mind just can't stop hoping for it not to be.