The Writer
by Erty Seidel
Grey sky. The threat of rain hanging heavily in the air. The gutters obsequiously ferrying leaves and cigarette butts in their grey water, runoff from the remnants of the last snowfall. Five twenty-six, reads the clock, time for dinner.
Black ink. The Writer sits motionless, pen poised above the paper, unsure of the novel's main character. Unsure of dinner. Outside, the storm hovers over Wisconsin, still debating whether to drop a torrent of rain or simply hover, misting and drizzling, before passing on.
Checkered blanket. The Writer tugs the blanket closer – it is not cold, but the edge of cold, where The Writer does not shiver but still feels a chill creeping through the thin cotton socks. Outside, the fog wraps itself around the house, eats the trees, conceals the fenceposts, blinds the neighbors. The Writer puts the pen down for a moment to sip from the cup of tea that has been steeping for too long. The Writer wants to put down the thoughts that have been floating in the ether for too long. They must be made concrete.
White paper. Still blank, still fresh, still smelling weakly of the acids and bleaches and chemicals that comprise it. The newspaper sits wrinkled against the wall, grey, yesterday's. The Writer has no use for it – the news is all soothsaying and doomwatching anyway. The Writer is preoccupied with a much more personal doom – an unrealized first novel. Doomed to obscurity.
Silver pen. Not actually silver, thinks The Writer, not actually precious. It is steel, or magnesium and steel, or perhaps some unknown combination of metals that The Writer will never actually feel the pressing curiosity to learn about. Perhaps if The Writer had a real silver pen, The Writer could write a novel. But The Writer is distracted. Pen to paper, thoughts to hand.
Misty thoughts. Thoughts of The Writer's. Thoughts of main characters and plots and symbols – but not obvious symbols, not obvious plots. The Writer ponders some more, black ink still in the pen, and white blankness still on the paper. The writer stares into the clouds for a while longer, puts pen to paper, and it starts to rain.