INSPIRATION

As Peter sat under the dim light of his desk lamp, he had a faint impression that something was slipping from his grasp. It was about two in the morning, and his computer’s monitor cast a faint blue tint onto the back wall of his room. He had the appearance of someone who was unaware of his surroundings, despite having been contained in them for a number of days. The skin under his eyes was gray and he had only a guess as to the last time he had washed his hair. His fingers tapped away at the keyboard, but the backspace key was used more often than any other.

The thoughts that ran through his head did not suit someone who considered himself an artist. He was busily sorting out a cycle of ideas that consisted of memories of the last time he missed a deadline, his overdue rent, and his still unrealized dream of creating a name for himself. He realized that his economic situation was more dire than usual, but that was not sufficient inspiration. So he continued to sit in the dark and tap out hollow words, maintaining the proper form and conventions, while waiting to be struck by that spectacular idea that he knew he had coming.

When he saw that three of the words he had just typed contained obvious errors, he knew that his right arm was twitching again. He wasn’t sure what had caused it, but he had woken up three weeks ago with a spasmodic tricep. It was becoming harder to dismiss this irregularity as a product of a poor sleep position, but it did not concern him for more than a moment now. Frankly, he was much more worried about the involuntary movement of his left eyelid. It was an older ailment and more seriously impaired his functions. He assured himself that he would see a doctor about it on a distant “someday” that he knew would never really come.

More physical torments inhibited his strenuous mental labor. His stomach began to grumble violently, causing a pain that he didn’t know could originate from something given the benign name of “tummy.” After agreeing that he would get something to eat when he had written three more paragraphs, he went for food, leaving behind a completely blank page. He didn’t particularly enjoy the customary bowl of macaroni and cheese that once again served as his late dinner, but it quelled the groans of his midsection. That was all he cared about, and the empty bowl sat in his sink when he returned to his place in front of the computer, which had already become cold and uncomfortable. So his efforts of the next ten minutes were equally dedicated to reshaping his chair and forging an inspired story. He found more success in the former.

By adhering to a set of universal guidelines for modern writing and imitating the trendier authors of the time, Peter was able to set down a page and a half of words without actually having an idea. He thought he hit upon some spark and began to write an intricate story of an intellectual’s struggle with morality. He envisioned a sprawling novel that involved friends, family, and a love interest in this young man’s mostly inner adventure. His fingertips began to work more diligently for some time, but stopped abruptly when it dawned on him that he was just writing Crime and Punishment transcribed to New York. He deleted those first pages and wished that he had been using a pen, so that he could have the satisfaction of crumpling up his mistake and throwing it away.

At this point, he abandoned his seat and took to pacing around the room. He walked rather quickly in a circle of about ten steps and ran his fingers, time and again, through his hair, now dark with oil and dirt. But no agitation of the head could cure his complete lack of brilliance. After two hours of unproductive alternation between pacing and sitting before a blank screen, he gave up on the night. When he looked up at a clock, he realized that the night had actually beaten him to the punch. Conceding defeat, he went to the top floor of his building to watch the sun rise.

He stood at the edge of the roof, looking eastward. His feet made the lightest of peeling sounds as he shifted his weight from one to the other on the tar-covered surface. The first rays of a Tuesday sun struck his pallid skin, and he admired the absence of any car horns. He then sat down and reclined himself till he was laying flat, arms and legs completely extended. It was a surprisingly comfortable position on that hard surface. As he looked up at the blue of sky that was occasionally swirled into obscurity by a cloud’s wispy tail, he was conscious of being happier than he had been in quite some time. He let the sun bake him was content to keep dormant for a couple of hours.

As he lay there, two things suddenly entered his mind. One was a perfect idea for a novella. The other was an acute desire to give up writing. After much deliberation, he came to a decision and plunged happily onto the warm sidewalk, where he remained until nine a.m., when he was taken to the coroner’s office.