Failure was imminent. The scenes were dull. The characters unsympathetic, the plot, which started out whimsical, was not even worthy of clever.
Typing on an antiquated laptop running a version of Windows so old, she was sure if she called tech support, its age would be older than the person answering. She promised herself long ago the laptop would stay until she earned enough money writing to replace it.
Now, every press of a worn key was a validation of her ineptitude.
“Grrrrrr,” she said, rubbing her hair frantically, a nervous habit she picked up from her older sister. There was no other response to her plight she could think of, other than throwing the damn thing out the window.
“What’s up?” asked her lover, walking into the room.
“There is no conflict! So this novel sucks!” She growled at the screen again, this time following it up with a hiss.
Her lover laughed. His laugh was honest and warm, but now it bugged her and she wished he would go away. She harrumphed and started typing again.
“I got your conflict right here, Baby,” he said as he came up behind her. He started to rub her shoulders, and nibbled on her neck.
In response, his hands moved swiftly to her breasts.
“My conflict for you knows no bounds!”
“It’s a long standing conflict!”
“Will you stop?”
“Eventually, this conflict will be messy!”
Despite every ounce of will she had in her body, she giggled. He picked her up and threw her on the bed.
Later, wrapped around him, she sighed.
“You always get so moody when you write,” he said, giving her bottom a small smack.
“Does there have to be conflict?”
“It’s in all the books you read.”
“Didn’t notice.” He started lightly caressing her back, and she sighed again, but this time nuzzled into his shoulder while doing so.
“Isn’t life,” he asked, “sometimes without conflict?”
“Yes, but that’s just not interesting to read. It’s not a story.”
“Aren’t we important, to each other? Don’t we have a story?” His caress was making her sleepy. She fought it, because he rarely spoke to her about her writing. He was going somewhere.
“Yes, but who else is interested in it besides us? What is special to us might not be…”
“Maybe you just need to wait.”
“What…” she closed her mouth and looked into his eyes. Far from being sleepy, they were dancing, engaging.
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe you need to feel more, do more, before you can write, uh, more.”
“Huh.” She was silent for a bit, and reached over and turned off the lamp. “Listen to you, Mr. All Writer Philosophy.”
“I always wanted to be a muse,” he said. She could hear his grin in the shadows.
“A muse is supposed to inspire me to write, not tell me to wait until I grow up!”
He laughed again. “Tell you what. Make love to me all night long. Tomorrow, I will go out and play golf and then bring home lunch. Sit at your craptop and imagine this was the last night we had together. And then start writing.”
She shuddered “Ewwwww, that thought just gives me the chills!” But she kissed him anyway, climbing on top of him, melting into him, loving him with all she had.
In the morning, she sat there, in the silent room. Everything was quiet, and the quiet was disturbing. She imagined life without her lover and instantly she started crying. Soon she was sobbing in great heaves, and it was sometime before she was able to type anything.
The words were hesitant, at first, but after a short while, her fingers were dancing, and the words came gushing forth. She typed and typed, and they would not stop. She suddenly realized they would never stop, she would write always until her very last days.
The knock on the door startled her and her stomach growled while her bladder suddenly demanded attention. She looked at the clock. She had been typing non-stop for hours. Her lover must be back with lunch, wanting her to open the door.
She bounced to the door, feeling elated and threw it open with a smile. “I am so hungry…”
It was not her lover.
It was a policeman, with a priest.
She screamed, and screamed and screamed. Her vision went black, she fell to the floor, and knew no more.