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‘Ah, damn it!’ Lysa snapped as she slammed her pen on the desk. Josh looked up from the bed.
‘What’s wrong?’ ‘Trying to write this story! It’s just one problem after another. I hate it!’
Ah, I know the problem, Josh thought. Inspiration.
‘What’s wrong?’ ‘Trying to write this story! It’s just one problem after another. I hate it!’
Ah, I know the problem, Josh thought. Inspiration.
He climbed from the bed and straightened his tweed jacket, and then his bow-tie before joining Lysa at the desk. He placed a consoling arm on her shoulder and glanced at the blank page to see one word lazily written as the colour faded on the page. It was his time to shine.
‘You see, Lysa,’ He spoke with the air of an intellect who knew everything in the universe. ‘Inspiration is delicate. Inspiration is shy and timid. Like a child in a new environment surrounded by strange faces and new sounds, it is afraid of you than you are of it.
You have to let it relax, feel its way around the environment and grow in confidence. You have to allow that inspiration to finds it identity and to flourish, you cannot force it.
And when it happens naturally – and it will – it will blow up inside your mind full of incredible colours and incredible shapes and patterns and before you know it, Lysa… you will have written a masterpiece.’ He gave a hearty chuckle. ‘I’ve been there before, but you’ll learn.
We all do.’
And then he patted Lysa on the shoulder so very proud of his wisdom. She was speechless. Brilliant, he had achieved his result. Except…
Lysa looked him up and down, a peculiar gaze on her face.
‘Actually…; she began. ‘It was just that my pen has stopped working.’
And then he patted Lysa on the shoulder so very proud of his wisdom. She was speechless. Brilliant, he had achieved his result. Except…
Lysa looked him up and down, a peculiar gaze on her face.
‘Actually…; she began. ‘It was just that my pen has stopped working.’
There was a long painful silence.
‘Yeah…’ He said as though he knew this all along. ‘And here’s a new one.’ He revealed a pen from his inside his pocket and then, sheepish, returned to the bed to pretend the conversation never happened.
‘Yeah…’ He said as though he knew this all along. ‘And here’s a new one.’ He revealed a pen from his inside his pocket and then, sheepish, returned to the bed to pretend the conversation never happened.
Lysa gazed out of the window as she wondered why people felt the need to try and flex some sort of superiority at any possible moment.
Sometimes, Lysa thought, I wish people would think before they speak.
Sometimes, Lysa thought, I wish people would think before they speak.
