Head Hung Low

 “Sometimes, there just isn’t much to write about…”

Head hung low, he glared down at his keyboard like he was in some sort of staring contest with the entire English alphabet. Taking a deep breath, he raised his fingers to type something, but nothing ever came to mind. A few jumbled words here. Half a fractured sentence there. Next thing he knew, he was smashing the backspace key like the fate of speculative literature depended on it.

“Fuck me,” he huffed; something he said quite often. “What’s wrong with me today? Why the hell am I even here?”

Both were questions he’d been asking himself for over a week now, and both were questions he didn’t seem to have an answer for quiet yet. Just like the little blinking line he’d been staring at for the past few hours, they danced around in the forefront of his mind, fading in and out in regular intervals; a constant reminder that despite calling himself an author, he was ultimately at the mercy of his own intellectual creativity. And right now, that creativity couldn’t even remember the difference between an oxford comma and an em dash.

Leaning back in his seat, he let out a deep groan as he stared up at the ceiling. It hadn’t changed much since the last time he looked at it. The lights were still flickering. The air conditioner was still humming. The ceiling tiles were still ugly. In fact, it had hardly changed at all over the last five minutes. But then again, neither had his computer screen.

Hunching forward, he took off his glasses so he could massage his temples.

‘If I can just get started,’ he thought, ‘I can probably knock out at least a chapter. Maybe even two.’

Of course, this was a complete and utter lie. He hadn’t finished a chapter in over a month, much less a few paragraphs. Though, I suppose one could also argue that when you’re a no-name author struggling to provide for your family, maybe lying to yourself isn’t such a bad idea. Hell, if anything, it’s probably the only thing you can do. That or take up drinking, of course.

Putting his glasses back on, he glanced over at his phone. He had three new messages waiting, though he didn’t bother to read any of them. He knew who they were from, and more importantly, he knew what they were about. The first was a message from his wife reminding him that he needed to eat lunch; something he often forgot to do when he was knee deep in a rough draft. The second was a message from his son – also reminding him that he needed to eat lunch. And the third. Well, he really didn’t know who the third text message was from, but he figured it probably had something to do with the fact that he had forgotten to eat lunch today.

Filled with a renewed sense of annoyance, he let out another jumbled mess of curses before slamming his wrists against the desk and plucking away at his keyboard. Like a dying man composing his own narrative requiem, he struck each letter with all the force of a fallen angel, beating them into submission as he struggled to contrive an ideological framework worthy of his devotion. With each burst of half-crazed fury, he trudged through the marred fragments of his own imagination, as if by some miracle he might be able to mold the tides of fate to his whim, giving birth to a piece of literary perfection that all the world would marvel at for centuries to come!

And then… Well, then he realized he had no idea where that train of thought was going.

“Fuck me!” he cursed again, deleting the beautiful mess he’d work so hard to destroy.

Bzzt – Bzzt – Bzzt

It was his phone.

Glancing over, he realized his wife was calling. Taking a deep breath, he unplugged it from the charger and answered.

“Hey there, dear.”

“Hey there, love,” she replied. “How’s everything going?”

“It’s good,” he lied. “Just trucking right on along.”

“How much have you gotten done today?”

“Uhhh. A little bit.”

“A little bit?”

“Yeah. Actually, I think I’m gonna call it quits here pretty soon.”

He could almost hear his wife smiling from the other end of the phone.

“You haven’t finished anything today, have you?”

“I mean… I’ve made a little progress.”

“Don’t lie,” she chuckled. “If you were making good progress you wouldn’t have even heard your phone go off.”

“Yeah… But–”

“It’s true! I bet you haven’t even eaten today, have you?”

He didn’t answer.

“Nooo!” she jokingly mocked. “And you wonder why you have brain fog.”

“I know… I know. I’m trying, dear. I just can’t get anything out, right now. Like, the ideas are there, but nothing’s working.”

“Have you thought about going for a walk?”

“I’ve already done that.”

“What about calling your dad?”

“Did that too.”

“Alright… Well, what about streaking?”

“What?!”

“Yeah! You know, stripping down naked and running through town like a crazy person. Surely after getting tased by the cops, you’d have something interesting to write about.”

“Woman, you’ve lost your mind,” he snickered.

“Maybe so, but you never know unless you try it.”

Shaking his head, his smile slowly faded as the conversation went quiet.

“Listen, love. I know you’re trying to make your dreams come true, and I’m here to support you however I can. But you can’t keep beating yourself up like this. You’ve got to cut yourself some slack.”

“I know,” he muttered, his gaze landing on the family photo sitting on the edge of his desk. “I just want to give you all a better life. And this is really the only way I know how to make that happen.”

“Love… You’ve already given us more than we could ever ask for. You’ve given us a house, a car that’s paid off – two cars that’re paid off. We have food. Clean clothes. Beds. You’ve given us everything, love. And we’re proud of you no matter what.”

Still locking eyes with the picture, he felt a single tear trickle down the side of his cheek.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“And I love you, too,” she whispered back. “Now, go get back to it. And make sure to eat today. I’m sure you’ll figure out something to write about. Just give it some time.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “See you tonight.”

Setting his phone back on the table, he wiped his eyes before turning his attention back to the computer screen. It was still blank. But then again, one could argue that’s how all good stories start out – a blank space just waiting to be filled.

Hunching forward again, his fingers softly caressed the keys like he was searching for something hiding within them. A spark of imagination that only he could bring to life. A formless vision that only he could put into words.

That’s when the idea hit him.

If he couldn’t find anything to write about, why not write about that?

Snickering, he caught himself leaning forward even further than before, almost as if he were leaning into destiny itself. He typed a few jumbled words here, half a fractured sentence there.  Next thing he knew, his mind was taking flight to worlds unknown as his fingers glided across the keyboard like sunlight dancing across the waves.

Within a few minutes, he had his first outline.

Within a few more, his first sentence.

‘Head hung low, he glared down at his keyboard like he was in some sort of staring contest with the entire English alphabet.’