At a café he sat. The crowded art on the walls failed to excite him. A field of flowers, painted by a 60 something old retired grandmother no doubt. A pastel pink background with white flowers, with textures. The blackboard walls appealed to him, as the vibe of the whole house turned into a cozy commerce.
He took a sip of his herbal tea—the cold breaker blend—and thought he detected hints of cinnamon and chamomile. A woman with a stripped hat and transparent glasses used sign language to communicate to her friend. He welcomed their silence. To his right, a row of four round tables, of which three were occupied. On the far end, an older man with brown hair and grey beard watched his phone, his reading glasses neatly folded on the table beside his coffee mug. An empty table. Then a bald man, wearing a buttoned grey vest, typing wildly on his Mac air, stickers of a first nation woman hiding the apple logo. Next to him sat a middle-aged woman, serious and focused. Unused headphones lay forgotten on the table in front of her laptop, alongside two yellow markers. He wondered what she was up to. Was she writing, like him? The markers suggested she must be studying. A teacher, perhaps?
He wished he could get up, talk to one of these strangers, connect. But he remained on his chair, protected by his computer, his earplugs and his hood. What was he doing here? Walking through his latest—biggest—Dark Night of the Soul. He had no idea how to proceed, how to overcome this wave of spleen, this seemingly insurmontable inertia. He needed to reconnect with his core, his heart, his creativity. Where had it gone? Never in his life had he lost interest in the one thing that made him special, made him feel happy, made him feel useful, in a way. So why was it slipping between his fingers?
He looked at the damaged wooden floor…Fuck this guy is annoying. How am I supposed to focus on overcoming this darkness if this idiot is going to continue talking like this? I have shit to deal with, asshole. Maybe I should change the music, the Inception score is way too up and down.
The real problem was, he had nothing to say really. There was absolutely no story in this place. Just people, talking and working.
So what does one write when no stories come up? One writes trash. Or one just keeps one's finger moving and see what comes up. How could this be, with infinite amount of stories in the world to tell? Everyone is damaged, everyone has something to share, something dramatic they want the world to know but what if I don't? I'm tired, I'm so tired of this process. Okay so I have to set up the scene, get to know the characters, and try to describe the story world even if I hate that part and then have them go through fake events. What's the point to all this. God I'm so deep. I should perhaps watch the masterclasses? Or brainstorm on the other story. Yes that might be for the best because nothing good is coming out of here this morning. I'm really trying, that's what's important. The intention is always the most important part of it all isn't it. My intention is to start loving the craft again. Start replenishing my well of creativity. Let the ideas flow, let the inspiration flood my brain and the excitement take over. I want to become a real artist. Someone who doesn't give a shit about the results, someone who only cares for the art and the craft itself. Someone who wants to write.
Because I want two things in life. To fuck and to write. What else should I be doing with my life? I like butts and words, that's pretty much it. Maybe the problem is that I don't like words. Because they escape me. I am not a master of my tools. I don't have a crazy good vocabulary and I'm not super deft with style and all that crap. I have trouble letting the words out, and hitting the right nail. Maybe I should write in french and use deepl? That'd be something wouldn't it.
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