Lucian sat at his desk refusing to be intimidated by the blank page scrolled into his typewriter. He had faced thousands of them in his life. Perhaps even millions. Only to see every one eventually fill with words and ideas that had miraculously advanced from the back of his head to the consciousness behind his eyes. And today would be no different. There was no reason to fret. He would just sit and wait until the familiar leaps of imagination intrinsic to his writing began again, as they always did.
The small pile of completed pages at his elbow certainly did not help. Though Lucian was confident in the premise for his new novel, here was tangible proof that its story was not emerging half as quickly as his previous books had. His brain seemed slower, less able to devise fresh scenarios, and there was a constant internal nagging to free things up. Approach ideas from a different direction. An unfamiliar angle. His books had always been admired for their expansive language and quiet structural complexity, yet all of a sudden Lucian felt frustrated by the restrictions of prose. He had no ambition to share a blind alley with Joyce and his posse of imitators. He was just tired of hearing his own voice inside his head. No matter how deeply he inhabited his characters, or displaced them in unfamiliar surroundings, the sound of his voice was always lurking below the surface. And he wanted to hear something different. Look through another person’s eyes. Not see the same damn blank page he had been staring at his entire life. Why was it still such a struggle after so many years? Had he ever managed to write a single sentence that did not demand repeated revising? What on earth had ever given him the idea that he was a writer? Lucian suspected that there were some authors who just sat down and typed the first thing that came into their head, then sent it out into the world without a second thought. But he had always felt compelled to fine-tune a book until he could no longer stand the sight of it. An exhausting and demanding process that he was now thoroughly tired of, and frustrated by its devaluing rewards. What was he persisting for? He knew how little time he had left. Why did he not just sit back and enjoy the show? What was another book going to prove? Why this incessant need to torture himself day after day with a stupid blank page?
Lucian heard Michael’s footsteps on the verandah and checked his wristwatch. One o’clock already and still nothing done. Lucian could not recall a single day in the past twenty years when he had failed to write a sentence, and committed himself to staying in his chair until he had a paragraph, or at least the beginning of one. The prospect of returning to his desk the following morning and staring at the same blank page was too dangerous. Lucian had never suffered from writer’s block because he had never given it the chance to take hold. Let a day go by without getting something down and the same might happen again tomorrow, and the day after that. Too bad if it was chilly outside. Michael would just have to wait. I bet he’s been writing all morning on that prissy little computer of his. Tap tap tap. Cliché cliché. The idea made Lucian even more angry, and without thinking he stood up, rushed into the hall and opened the front door to find his secretary pacing the verandah while puffing on a cigarette to fend off the cold.
If you’re going to smoke out here then put your butts in the garbage and not into one of my coffee cups, okay? This is my home, not your personal ashtray.
Right. Sorry.
Lucian noticed that Michael had no groceries with him. And where’s the food you’re cooking for tonight’s dinner?
Michael picked up his satchel. I thought we could give ourselves a night off and maybe order a pizza, or get some Thai sent up.
Really, you thought that did you? Well done. Brilliant work. You must have a headache after such a burst of inspiration. But most places don’t deliver this far up the mountain. And anyway, I only eat real food. Like the type I prepared for you last night. And now it’s your turn to return the favour. So fuck off back down that road and find something for dinner, or don’t bother coming back at all.