It was late. The sky blue quilt that lay kicked and crumpled at the foot of the bed glowed in the dim blue light from the digital numbers. 12:59. Depending on the accuracy of the clock's atomic guarantee, it may or may not be Monday in the next time zone. It certainly was, here. He counted back the hours from his wife's early departure for work. Five and a half hours still remained before diapers would need changing or eggs scrambling. To most this would be a regrettably late bedtime, but he knew he could easily spend the next 90 minutes tapping away at the keyboard. Or, admittedly, staring into space for indeterminate lengths of time as his mind scribbled and erased madly. The words had been coming easily but what did he have to show but some autobiographical musings and thinly guised Star Trek fan fiction? Was he getting anywhere? Where was he even going?
So far, he'd let inspiration take the wheel, ignoring the terror of the blank white page for long enough to write the first thing that came to mind. His sketchbooks were mostly old entries, from before adulthood had arrived without warning. Now he paid little service to his drawing skills, and the estrangement led to awkwardness. Words came more naturally, but he knew he was a pretender.
Amateur screenplays and a handful of short stories were the sum of his experience prior to this endeavor, and he was a true novice. An early and deep love of reading books had ensured his excellent spelling, but that was near the end of his technical prowess. He found himself fretting over making some gaff that would betray his weakness. Underneath it all was a stiff creative pride in his scribbles and doodles, modest though they be. He wanted to be better. He wanted to be good. Two spaces or one? Let the all powerful and mistaken autocorrect guide us.
So far, he'd let inspiration take the wheel, ignoring the terror of the blank white page for long enough to write the first thing that came to mind. His sketchbooks were mostly old entries, from before adulthood had arrived without warning. Now he paid little service to his drawing skills, and the estrangement led to awkwardness. Words came more naturally, but he knew he was a pretender.
Amateur screenplays and a handful of short stories were the sum of his experience prior to this endeavor, and he was a true novice. An early and deep love of reading books had ensured his excellent spelling, but that was near the end of his technical prowess. He found himself fretting over making some gaff that would betray his weakness. Underneath it all was a stiff creative pride in his scribbles and doodles, modest though they be. He wanted to be better. He wanted to be good. Two spaces or one? Let the all powerful and mistaken autocorrect guide us.
Memories floated in the mixed light; blue screen, white screen.
How long had it been since he'd sworn a private oath after the weekend retreat with his brother? Too long for his honor. His spirit had swelled with the long forgotten mix that scored his homeward journey. Months later he reflected that not much had changed. What could he do? Maybe when the kids were older he could concentrate on his art. Excuse me, Dad coming through. I've got my hands full, as they all say.
The absence of the oldest, away at school (all day!), only made the time spent with little brothers sweeter in contrast. The taste of helplessness is bitter. To have the chance to connect and indulge in the random delights of small children is a gift for one so playful as to receive it. He was.
Thoughts swirled in the shapes of words, some observed, some dreamed away. The letters he sought were an ancient riddle. He awoke to the sound of his name and most honorable title, cast forth from the waking of young breath. The day had begun. He couldn't help but smile as he dragged himself out of bed. Life could not better be.
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