#31: The Writer sucks tonight.
The Writer looks back and forth between his dog and a flickering LED candle. One, organic; the other, a simulation; neither act as inspiration.
Biting his bottom lip, The Writer stands up, placing his laptop on the ottoman where his feet once were, and makes way to the kitchen.
There, his wife is feeding his daughter oatmeal. He watches as she repeatedly and gently brings food to her lips. His baby smiles with each spoonful, a gesture that reveals a deeper love and connection between the two. She turns her head towards him, “Hey Creep-o, instead of staring, can you maybe help me here?” She motions to a burp cloth on the counter next to him.
I suck, he thinks to himself as he hands his wife the cloth. Not even the love between a mother and daughter can act as a spark this evening.
Upon returning to his laptop, The Writer sees that his dog has now taken residence in the spot he just vacated. His dog looks back at him and yawns, saying without saying, “What? It’s not like you’re using this space for anything meaningful.”
The Writer’s eye catches the blinking cursor in the Word doc in front of him. The beat of each blink aligns perfectly with the thoughts popping into his head:
You suck at writing.
You’re not a real writer.
You’ve said all you needed to say.
Nobody cares about a single word you type.
Just stop doing this each week.
You.
Fucking.
Suck.
And, you’re fat.
And, nobody likes you.
Not even that baby.
Or that dog.
And, and…
The Writer’s wife shuts the computer screen, breaking the trance.
“Can’t seem to find the words tonight?” she asks.
He runs his fingers through the scratchy prickles where his hair once was. “Oh, I found the words. I just don’t want to listen to them.”
She smiles. “Some days you’ve got ‘em, and some days you suck.” Moving towards him, her hands find their way around his back. “Give it another shot tomorrow.”
The Writer sucks tonight. But, he’ll be back at it tomorrow.