I sit down at my desk, open my laptop, and prepare for the loads of inspirational, thought-provoking words that are about to pour out of my mind, and into this computer. Words so incredible, so eye-opening, that all you readers will pass out from the eloquent thoughts that are my mind. I look at the clock, it reads 8:30. Pfff, piece of cake, I’ll crank this story out in a half hour, 45 minutes, tops. Then I’ll have the rest of the night to watch Legally Blonde, I mean sports…yeah…sports… Yet there I sit blankly instead, locked in a staring contest with the white, speckled walls of my dorm room, thinking about how odd of a name “Sufjan” is. Is that his real name? Or some stage name. Well, guess I better do a quick Google search of it…Wait how am I watching videos on sinkholes?! What the hell happened?
I snap my focus back to my computer. I look at the time in the top right corner. 9:30. What the hell? I’ve been watching sinkhole videos for an hour? How is that even possible? Okay Zach, you got this, just write the opening at least. I gather my bearings, crack my fingers, and start typing away. Finally! The great story is beginning to take shape. A story so epic teachers are going to have it featured in their curriculum for years to come. Some pubescent, awkward teen is gonna have to sit there in agony as their teacher tries to find the deep, intricate meanings hidden in the depths of my convoluted metaphors and similes. I sit back in my chair to admire my exquisite opening line that will grab the reader’s attention, luring them into my story.
“Four score and seven years ago…”
Hm…well that sounds oddly familiar… I reopen Google and type in those words and come across some fellow named Abraham Lincoln who apparently beat me to it. Bastard. Well, “back to the drawing board” as they say…
I scrap that opener due to infringement issues and try to come up with something a little more, how you say, “original.” I scan the room for some inspiration because apparently all mine went out the door and took a bus to Saskatchewan.
I notice that one of my posters that hung upon the wall above my bed was slightly out-of-place. It’s right corner protruding out far more than it should’ve been. I should fix that. I should definitely fix that. No. Stop it Zach. You gotta finish this story. I snap my attention back to my screen and stare blankly some more at the pearly white document in front of me, slightly hoping the story would just write itself. But alas, it didn’t. Sadly in this world we live in, “effort” is required to get anything done. Stupid effort.
My mind did not stay on my writing for long (shocker, I know). It, instead, kept wandering back to that out-of-place poster corner. It was driving my absolutely mad. The more I tried to suppress it from my mind, the more and more I thought about it. Finally, after about the 15th time of getting distracted by it, I bolt up from my chair and approach the irregular poster corner. Ever so gently, I peel the tape off of the corner in question, flatten the corner back onto the wall, making sure it is taut. Then, I carefully place the tape back on, locking the corner back into place. I stand back and admire the poster, proud of the work I have just done. Suddenly, I find myself under my bed, surface cleanser in hand, scrubbing profusely at the tiles. I pause and try to remember exactly how I got here. One minute I’m looking at my poster, the next I’m cleaning like a 1950’s housewife. How could this have happened?
I crawl out from underneath my bed and was taken aback by how clean and organized my room is. I must’ve blacked out and went on a cleaning frenzy. God dammit. Not Again. Yes, indeed “not again.” Sadly this isn’t the first time I have blacked out and channeled my inner housekeeper. I mean good for me that I cleaned my room, but I really needed to be writing. I check the clock knowing full well it was gonna be late. The clock read 12:30. I had cleaned for nearly three whole hours. I’ve never cleaned for more than an hour in my life, let alone three! I meander back to my desk, and plop down in my chair exhausted from the unconscious cleaning I just partook in. I look back at the blank screen, a horrible reminder for the failure for writing this night was.
I could hardly keep my eyes open, but I wished to get something, anything down at this point, simply so I did not lose complete hope with my skill as a writer. I lift my hands onto the keyboard, ready to write. As if like magic, once my fingertips came into contact with the keys, I filled with such inspiration. It flowed all throughout my body, bringing a euphoric moment of inspiration that one could only dream about. Suddenly though, I look up and notice the sun beginning to peek through the blinds of the window across the room from me. I check the clock. 6:30. I look around the room in a daze, unsure of what exactly had happened. Then I remember what had happened the night before; that magical moment of inspiration. I log back onto my computer to check what genius I had mustered up right before I fell asleep. I open the document and begin to read anxiously.
I look at the screen in disappointment. I must’ve fallen asleep on the keyboard before I was able to write anything down. I was about to close my computer in shame, but something compelled me to continue reading. I listened to the voice and continued to read. And what I read, boy was it awe-inspiring.
I fell asleep at the keyboard. What, did you expect me to write some profound shit in my sleep? Please, I ain’t that talented.