Staring at a computer screen. Every key and every digit is in the right place. I can feel the kinetic energy, the potential of a masterpiece completely in my control and no one else’s. It’s like looking at a blank canvas and knowing you have the ability to create what all the other greats have created before you, only it’s different. Because it’s you.
Sipping whiskey and smoking a cigarette; it’s a cliché visual out of a weak story without a happy ending. I’ve become that cliché. A few novels are in front of me that I’ve started reading — maybe 100 pages apiece — but I’ve finished none of them. The hopeless thought that whichever one I choose will somehow take away from the other two. Like they are even related. So I’d rather just start a different one.
Right now I’m probably selling a dream on the cheap to a hapless passer-by who’s lost. If tomorrow it doesn’t come true, it will the next day, and, if not then, then someday. I assure them of this. But we all know it’s never coming true;
I’m just buying time.