He began to tap away at the keyboard, sat at his usual place on the corner of the kitchen table next to the French doors. He had spent the past twenty minutes blankly starting at the laptop screen, unable to begin his novel. Occasionally he would look away from the blinking curser, eyes falling on all the objects around him in turn, then back to the screen. This pattern had continued the whole time, and indeed every time this week that he had attempted to begin his journey. He looked at the fridge, noting that some of the photos stuck to the door of him and Debbie needed straightening up. He looked at the cooker, wondering when the last time he had been the one to clean it, or indeed actually use it. Once or twice he had even peered over the top of the open Toshiba at Debbie sat opposite him. She hadn't noticed when he did, engrossed playing a game on her mobile.
He had always wanted to write a novel. The thought of becoming a published author a hidden dream that had always seemed like something he wouldn't achieve. There had however been a few times in the past when a spark of enthusiasm had him start a day or two of furious typing, yet nothing ever came of it and the urge to continue would fade and then vanish for another year or two. As did each time before, this period of inspiration seemed like the one. This time he would keep typing, continue with his story until his novel was complete. But also the same was the fact that he actually couldn't think of a damn thing to actually write about. The killer story was eluding him.
Back in the kitchen the sound of the dishwasher pulled his eyes away from his first few lines. He was finding himself being distracted with ease and knew he had to get himself back in the zone. He chuckled at the thought, realising he had never actually been in the zone to start with. At least it sounded cool, if only in his head. Fingers back at the keyboard, hovering over the letters as he read back what he had just typed. The words had flowed from him, turning into sentences which in turn became paragraphs. Three in total, each one appearing faster than the one before. He was on a roll, and after three minutes of reading...
"What a load of shit" He was supposed to say it in his head, yet the words blurted out as easy as the lines had materialized in front of him.
"Hmm what was that?" He looked up at Debbie's question.
"Oh nothing, sorry"
"Ok" her eyes darting back down to her phone at his response.
He was a lucky man. Debbie was beautiful. Every time he looked at her he would admit to himself that he was punching above his weight. Pretty green eyes, blonde hair that she kept immaculate and a smile to die for had him wanting her from afar for years. He had worked hard to get her, pulling out all the stops in an effort make her his, taking over his life for months. An irrational fear that she would someday flitter away into the arms of a more manly man occasionally surfacing in the back of his mind. Even as she looked at him tonight, the tired weariness of taking care of a busy two year old making her look exhausted, she was glorious.
His eyes wrinkling into a concentrated scowl, he forced his gaze back down to the screen, and after reading his work one more time, deleted it all. Time to start again.
He crossed his legs beneath the table, arms folded as he rubbed his chin deep in thought. The sound of a car passing the house made him turn his head towards the French doors he sat beside, the garden beyond pitch black. He wondered who would be driving down their street at eleven in the evening on a Tuesday night in March. Maybe it was the police again? He had seen them twice in the last two weeks, the neighbor's three doors down having an argument both times that prompted somebody to call. That could be something he could write about. He would make the story far more exciting than a simple argument of course. Maybe he could write about a secret that had been discovered by one of the pair? An affair, or a hidden gambling addiction? Perhaps they were arguing over whether to go to the authorities to confess they had buried a body in the garden? A hell of a story could be made of this he was sure. He imagined a best seller, millions of copies being sold around the world along with a movie deal. Excitement started to rise within him as his head moved back towards the laptop. Fingers at the ready...
"Do you fancy a glass of wine?" Pleading eyes looked at him over the screen. It had been a long day, a glass of wine sounded like a good idea.
"Sure why not"
Debbie slowly pushed herself up from the table, turning and heading towards the kettle where a box of cheap Merlot sat resting against the tiles. Glasses pranged together as she took them from the cupboard above, the effort of stretching up causing an exaggerated grunt. He watched as she struggled to locate the plastic tap inside the box, not even registering that he made no attempt to help.
He cracked his knuckles, started back at the screen and began to type. After what seemed like an eternity, a single sentence had appeared in front of him. So engrossed in his work that he hadn't realised Debbie had placed a glass of red wine next to him.
"Oh thanks. Sorry, I didn't even realise you put it there"
"I noticed" the little smile accompanying her words letting him know she was a tad annoyed of the lack of immediate gratitude.
Back at the screen, he read the sentence over he had written. It was then deleted immediately. It was poor. The grammar was bad, two words spelt incorrectly along with the fact it didn't even make much sense. Time to start again...
