#21 - My Story

Today’s words: Greasy, Conceive, Idea, Art

Word count: 446

Summary: Sometimes you need to take a little inspiration from your own life, right?

My body, completely burned out, slouched over my desk in the dimly lit studio. I stared into the Pixar-like desk lamp as if I were interrogating myself.

“Come on, James. What do you want to write? HUH?” the volume of my voice took me by surprise. “...So, even I can yell that loud, huh?”

Finishing the last couple of chips from the white paper packet, I decided to write the date in the top right-hand corner of my notebook, just to feel pen against paper and hope that it would trigger something inspiring. The salty taste made me smile.

“The fourth...ah, no no,” I scribbled ‘04’ out, “fifth of August.”

Yes. This pleased me.

Looking at the date like a proud parent, my expression slowly morphed into one of horror when I realised that my finger had left a greasy print at the top of the page.

“Unclean,” I muttered, staring accusingly at the semi-transparent stain. The grease allowed me to see the lined paper on the next page, as if I were looking into another dimension (a dimension where I still hadn’t written anything, apparently). Though maybe...ah, maybe if I looked at the mark long enough, it would act like a crystal ball of sorts and tell me what to write?

“Alright...” I readied myself, both hands at the edge of the desk, “I need an idea. Anything.” I leant forward and stared, tilting my head.

After a while, I started to get a dull pain at the forefront of my skull. “Maybe this is how I conceive ideas.” My nodding head backed me up. “Soon a beautiful baby story will burst out of my head, drag its body onto the pad, and start rolling around on the page. When it’s done, I’ll have something that’s well-prepped for submission.” I laughed...nay, cackled. “Yes. This is art.” I nodded with more certainty. “I am an artist,” my own voice whispered encouragingly.

It took longer than it should have to realise how ridiculous a man hunched over a desk looking at a grease stain for inspiration was. I looked over my shoulder. No-one should have to see me like this.

“You’re not helping, you’re supposed to be helping.” The stain didn’t respond.

Stubborn piece of shit.

...

Inhaling once, I realised what I could do.

The fingers gripping the pen almost choked it as I brought the tip to the page and began:

His body, completely burned out, slouched over his desk in the dimly lit studio. He stared into the Pixar-like desk lamp as if he were interrogating himself.

“Come on, James. What do you want to write? HUH? The handsome man cried despairingly.

Yes. Perfect.