The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental. WRITERS BLOCK I had been writing for two hours. It was time for a break, so I got up from my desk, stretched my arms toward the ceiling and shook off the tightness that sets in on a sedentary fifty-something novelist if he doesn’t remember to take breaks and move. I got myself a cup of coffee, my third of the day, but who’s counting, and opened the sliding doors to step onto the balcony. Fifth floor in the heart of Manhattan, where dreamers go to die. It was the middle of the week and I had only written five new pages. I needed some inspiration, I thought. Perhaps tonight I’d actually go out. See what kind of trouble I can get into. Anything in hopes of seeing something that would spark a new idea for the book. I pulled a pack of cigarettes from my shirt pocket and tapped it a couple of times, then pulled one out. Filterless death sticks. Smoked ‘em since I was 15. As I lit it up I had to laugh. Here I was smoking a Camel on Hump Day.
Posted on: Wed, 15 Oct 2014 16:25:20 +0000
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