His worst nightmare was coming true. The only craft he knew, he was losing. Writing to him was like food and water. His being depended on the fact that he wrote. Justifiably, his books sold. Though he did not limit himself to one genre, mystery thrillers, were his forte.
The day had begun like any other. Impatiently, he went thru the morning chores and rituals, as if sharpening a pencil before drawing a sketch, his mind caught up in different directions his writing would take that morning. Soon enough he was seated at his desk, as was his wont, waiting for the inspiration to strike, the flow of adrenaline already building up, as he sat on the computer, his fingers flying over thee keyboard, trying to keep up with the dictates of his mind.
He had been seven when he had started writing, the passions within him finding expression as he wrote over the years. Poems, journals, historical fiction, his ouvre grew formidable over the years. Now he was seventy, living alone, his life peopled with his characters. Until now.
Teeming with ideas, his character etched deeply in his mind, he wrote. The book was almost complete, the murderer sorted out, when his hands stopped typing. Impatiently, he pulled away from the computer, his thoughts racing in myriad directions. Drawing close again, he wrote feverishly, paused and erased the entire paragraph. Again he agonised over the ending, changed a few words, in his head, then typed unseeingly, almost. Then erased again. Morning stretched into noon, then night.
Entering the cottage, his housekeeper paused. There was no sign of him . usually he would be seated at the breakfast table impatiently awaiting her. She found him hunched over the computer in his study, head held in his hands.
The doctor led him away forcibly, disregarding his protests, and pronounced that he needed rest or else he would collapse. Sedated, he slept a deep disturbed sleep. When he was better, he ventured near the computer, but found himself staring blankly at the screen. Writer's block. His entire life he had never faced the agony which he did now. Days passed as he avoided the room itself, the computer anathema to his sickened mind.
"Hello, Clark, how are you. How's the book coming along." his publisher walked in to his bedroom, bemused at the sight of one of the most prolific writers of his times, lying inert on his bed, his eyes closed. Sitting up, Clark pointed one weary finger at the computer that had now been shifted to his room. "There it is. I cant seem to complete it. Take it away. I can't bear to see it anymore. Im losing my mind." The alarmed publisher sat down, picking up the proofs and reading them as he sank on to the chair.
Absorbed in the book, he read, until he came to the very end. "The best yet, unbelievable ending. They are going to love it," he exclaimed. "What the hell do you mean ? It's incomplete" Clark was shocked. " Read it," commanded his friend. And indeed it was. "But..But I haven't been able to.."
Just then his housekeeper entered. Admonishing him she said, " You know you have to rest. I heard you typing all thru the night, it just isn't good for you."
The day had begun like any other. Impatiently, he went thru the morning chores and rituals, as if sharpening a pencil before drawing a sketch, his mind caught up in different directions his writing would take that morning. Soon enough he was seated at his desk, as was his wont, waiting for the inspiration to strike, the flow of adrenaline already building up, as he sat on the computer, his fingers flying over thee keyboard, trying to keep up with the dictates of his mind.
He had been seven when he had started writing, the passions within him finding expression as he wrote over the years. Poems, journals, historical fiction, his ouvre grew formidable over the years. Now he was seventy, living alone, his life peopled with his characters. Until now.
Teeming with ideas, his character etched deeply in his mind, he wrote. The book was almost complete, the murderer sorted out, when his hands stopped typing. Impatiently, he pulled away from the computer, his thoughts racing in myriad directions. Drawing close again, he wrote feverishly, paused and erased the entire paragraph. Again he agonised over the ending, changed a few words, in his head, then typed unseeingly, almost. Then erased again. Morning stretched into noon, then night.
Entering the cottage, his housekeeper paused. There was no sign of him . usually he would be seated at the breakfast table impatiently awaiting her. She found him hunched over the computer in his study, head held in his hands.
The doctor led him away forcibly, disregarding his protests, and pronounced that he needed rest or else he would collapse. Sedated, he slept a deep disturbed sleep. When he was better, he ventured near the computer, but found himself staring blankly at the screen. Writer's block. His entire life he had never faced the agony which he did now. Days passed as he avoided the room itself, the computer anathema to his sickened mind.
"Hello, Clark, how are you. How's the book coming along." his publisher walked in to his bedroom, bemused at the sight of one of the most prolific writers of his times, lying inert on his bed, his eyes closed. Sitting up, Clark pointed one weary finger at the computer that had now been shifted to his room. "There it is. I cant seem to complete it. Take it away. I can't bear to see it anymore. Im losing my mind." The alarmed publisher sat down, picking up the proofs and reading them as he sank on to the chair.
Absorbed in the book, he read, until he came to the very end. "The best yet, unbelievable ending. They are going to love it," he exclaimed. "What the hell do you mean ? It's incomplete" Clark was shocked. " Read it," commanded his friend. And indeed it was. "But..But I haven't been able to.."
Just then his housekeeper entered. Admonishing him she said, " You know you have to rest. I heard you typing all thru the night, it just isn't good for you."
your best yet..
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