The blank page taunts and terrifies; there is nothing worse.
He looked at it for hours before even once putting his fingers to the keyboard. There must be some thought or idea in there that needs to come out into the light of day. But it doesn’t happen. Not for an eternity in his mind.
Once the words began to flow it was a veritable flood and his fingers could not fly over the keys fast enough to keep up with his mind. Cigarettes were smoked; coffee and whiskey consumed. The all-consuming drive to write however could not be slaked.
After two weeks of nearly endless banging on the keyboard he finally admitted that, for now, this work was finished. The pages were printed, the drafts saved, and his mind was at peace with it all.
After collecting all the remaining pages from the printer he walked down the hall and into the bedroom at the opposite end of the house. She was waiting for him. She was always there waiting for him when he finished.
“Another one done!” he exclaimed proudly as he entered the room.
Silence greeted him.
Always with the silent treatment, he thought somewhat bitterly.