[First fiction piece I wrote on the moleskine. A few lines in, it turned out to be far from serious. Pseudo-sarcastic?]
Nothing was working. He had tried having sex before writing. He had tried eating chocolates to put him in the mood. He had tried watching soap operas to put him in the mood. Neither sweets nor salty tears worked. He had tried sharpening pencils, as Hemingway was supposedly wont to do, even though he did his writing with a laptop computer.
Still, the words didnâ€™t comeâ€¦but the ideas did. Hell, he had a ton of ideas dumped upon him every hour by his muse perched on the ceiling of his room. He had ideas for poetry, plays, fantasy, mystery, horror, sagas, novelettes, flash fiction. He was absolutely sure that his ideas were inimitable, that they were guaranteed bestsellers and prizewinners — once they were actually put into words, stanzas, chapters. The problem was his muse didnâ€™t want to be bothered with a menial task such as â€œword-mongeringâ€, as she had put it in her harsh whispers to him. He had to do it on his own.
Then his muse, exasperated by the impotency of her master, hinted to him in a fit of anger, â€œYouâ€™re not a writer, youâ€™re a typer!â€ With this, he shunned the keyboard for true pen and paper. He managed to satisfy his muse with a few works, but he soon proved inconsistent. The ink from his pen would come in sputters rather than in flows, and his stamina would falter after a few minutes of writing. His muse began to complain again, causing him to scramble for a solution — this and that combination of ballpoint pen, ruled paper, pencil, Post-it note, fountain pen, tissue paper — all to no avail.
The muse reached her breaking point. â€œWhat, are you only good for quickies?â€ Then came the ultimatum. â€œIf you canâ€™t give me the satisfaction I need, Iâ€™ll find someone else who will. Even if itâ€™s a girl.â€