He sat at his desk, bored, distracted, blocked - his fingers tapping idly against the antique wood. He had ideas, he had the skill to take those ideas and craft them into lyrical streams – quick flowing narratives of well chosen syllables. But still, he sat, he stared, and nothing happened. Nothing but the tap-tap-tap of his fingers against the desk.
He knew that, to a certain extent, he simply had to do it. That really, unromantic as it was, at some point writing simply becomes a question of sitting there and typing – just physically doing the work. It wasn’t even as though it was that hard, as work goes; he was an excellent touch-typist. He could sit there and type with his eyes closed. He could probably, in fact, do it in his sleep. He couldn’t even excuse it on a lack of energy – what little it took he was already exerting, tapping his fingers against the desk, almost as if his fingers wanted to type without him.
He sighed. It was as though there was something missing, something simple, yet fundamental. The hours passed as he sat there, staring listlessly at the screen, his life slowly burning away. And all the while his typist fingers tapped the staccato rhythm of his greatest work out into the unlistening air.
