Writer’s Blah

We were sprawled out on my bed, our laptops propped up on our legs, half watching a movie and half working. Well, he was working. I stared at Subway Philosophy. I stared at the novel I’ve been working on. I turned off the movie and put on music. He leaned over and kissed me. He went back to work.

I stared at a fresh white page on the screen and began typing:

There are moments when you are drunk when you can feel the earth spinning on its tilted axis. There are moments after too much vodka and too much light that you can feel the gravitational pull as the universal spiral bears down on you. And you are incredibly small, nearly nothing, just indescribably lost and alone on a planet trapped in a revolution.

I pushed my computer down off my lap.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

I closed the laptop and wedged it farther down on the bed. “Awful. It’s practically the worst paragraph I’ve ever written. It’s shit. It’s hilarious it’s so bad.”

He leaned over and kissed my collarbone.

“And I haven’t been able to write all month.”


“Because of you. Because I like you and you make me happy and I’m so fucking complacent that I have no inspiration.”

He smiled.

“Why are you smiling? It’s not funny. I’m so happy I can’t write.”

“I’m sorry, I know it’s not funny…” he covered his mouth with his hand, and his eyes danced. I couldn’t believe it. He was holding back laughter.

“You don’t understand.” I pulled my hair away from my face and my eyes filled up with tears. “God, this is awful.”

“Because I make you happy?”

“Yes. You’ve made me so happy I lost my voice.”

He tucked hair behind my ear. “So how do we find your voice again? You were good without me.”

“I was great without you.”

“What’s changed?”

“Complacency. And alcohol.”

He clapped his hands together. “So let’s get you drunk. Do you want me to go out and buy a bottle of wine? Or scotch?”

“See?” I said, my eyes filling with tears again. “This is exactly why I can’t write. Because you say shit like that and you make me so fucking happy.”


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