There comes a time in the life of every author when the blank, white pages before them mirror the inside of their minds. As pure and as untainted as the whitest snows at the top of Everest, and as smooth and elastic as the deliciously plump thigh of a woman, or rather the lack of thought evoked thereof. It was as though all the years of accumulated experiences and extensive research came to nothing in the face of the unstoppable force of procrastination.
Unfortunately, this is where I find myself. My cursor blinked, on and off, as I stared blankly at my computer monitor. These days, I've gotten to know sleep deprivation a little better. It was one of those annoying, talkative friends that didn't seem to understand the concept of peace and quiet.
The moment my hands reached toward my keyboard, a veritable avalanche of disembodied temptations drifted through my thoughts.
"Do it tomorrow. Do it tomorrow."
"You can't write anything now, just give up."
"The bed is oh so soft, why not lie down for just a little bit?"
But I couldn't listen to this friend's advice. If I did, then the deadline for my newest title would be one step closer, or rather, one day away, from when I was currently agonizing.
This may not come as a surprise, but this started when Melissa and I talked, three days ago. I saw this possibility coming from a long way away, but you see, the venerable and wise gentleman, Good Judgment, abruptly takes his leave when the boisterous and uncouth Emotions brigade crashes the dinner party known as common sense.
I lacked inspiration.
Maybe I wasn't lacking it. It was probably more accurate to say it was taken away from me.
That would make sense. The only thing in my head right now is Melissa.
The way she worried about me.
Her tears.
The way she laughed away our awkwardness.
The gentle, thoughtful smile at the mention of Anon.
All the while, her seemingly perfect features fell away into a husk of rash preconceptions, to reveal a girl I never knew. The goddess that sat on her throne high above the "Social Pyramid" was human. What a surprise.
Something told me there was more to her smile back then. Maybe one day, under more personal circumstances, she would...
Subconsciously, both of my hands collided with my face in unison. Their painful sting brought me back to my senses. I slowly rubbed my eyes and cast about my room. Neat, and orderly, as I always kept it.
Against the wall opposite my desk, stood a wooden bookshelf. Within its rungs, it held my collection of novels. Classical literature was a favorite of mine in the past before I took to writing. Dickens, Twain, Thoreau, Whitman, and the souls of so many more gazed back at me. Despite all these individual efforts, their sum only managed to fill the top rack. The rest were various other odds and ends I found interesting. They took up the rest of the remaining shelves.
Atop this shelf was my pride and the greatest work of my life, the entirety of Judgement of Fantasia, all eleven volumes of it in all its freshly printed glory. Perhaps it was a little vain of me to put my meager work on the backs of the greats, but I'm sure they wouldn't mind. They had long since seen their times, so it was only fair that mine could take its shot.
I returned my hazy focus back to the computer screen, the cursor still blinking against the white expanse of nothingness.
"Where was I?" I muttered sleepily.
From there, I began to write.