Just another day

She sat on the couch equipped with a latte and her laptop. The light tapping of the keys mixed with the music she had playing. Her fingers moved with feroucity and determination. She was a writer and this was her natural state of being. Unitl it wasn’t. Fingers ceised in action, brow furrowed, eyes glaring at the screen rereading what she had already written. A sigh escapes her lips and her head sinks into her hands. She remains frozen like this for some time. Then her head bounces up and a smile lights her face as she looks lovingly at her screen.

“No, that won’t work.” her smile fades and she resumes her former position.

“Why can’t you do what I want you to? It’s really not that hard.”

She often speaks to her characters out loud. I wonder if she hears them too?

“It won’t work anyother way! It has to be this way! Just die already! Damn you!”

She pushes the laptop roughly onto the couch and paces across the floor like a disgruntled cat. Stop. “Maybe….no.” Resume pacing. Stop. “That wouldn’t make sense.” Resume. Stop. “I’d have to rewrite the whole thing though. Is that really what you want?” Sigh. Resume.

Beaten and tired she slumps to the floor next to the couch and rereads her work once again.

“I just need a break. Just a break. Time for lunch.”

She walks out and I can hear the sound of a wine bottle being opened. It sounds like a generous glass to me. I wonder in to check on her. She’s cutting vegetables with rigor giving them her frustration. Soon a salad appears. She takes it and her wine to the balcony to eat.

Abruptly she runs back into the living room and types with haste. Her sudden burst only last a few seconds before she is again staring in frustration. She walks, fists clenched, back to her half eaten salad. Another glass of wine is poured which eventually becomes another glass and another. She says it helps loosen up her thoughts. I think it just makes her act more ridiculous.

“Oh, I’ve got it!”

She runs back in dropping all the dishes onto the coffee table. She’ll forget about them. She always does. Her fingers fly across the screen. There is the occaional “oh” or “wait” along with a brief pause but for the most part she keeps up her flow. She stays there for almost an hour with her fingers barely stopping. Her eyes are focused and her face is lit. I like when she is like this. She looks so happy, so accomplished. But as always….

It doesn’t last. The light is low in the apartment now. She’s sitting in the strangest position with her laptop held close like a lover. Her eyes stare in disbelief. She throws herself down on the couch with a low moan.

She falls asleep, laptop open, on the couch finally. She will repeat this process again tomorrow. Same page of her book, new bottle of wine, and a fresh salad. I move onto the couch with her to sleep beside her. Humans are strange. I chose her but I don’t quite understand her actions; especially the talking to the computer screen. Truly, though, what would writers do without dogs to watch over them?