(sxc.hu)

Wink by NICK ROBINSON

Sometimes seclusion can create writer's block instead of cure it, turning the mouse pointer into a pest.

The computer screen was winking at him.

Wink.

Wink.

Wink.

The vertical line, the cursor, marking the insertion point on Microsoft Word, on the blank document he had opened over two hours ago. It was blinking at him. No, not blinking, winking. There was only one cursor, of course, so it couldn't possibly blink. It had to wink. He thought that was funny an hour ago when it first occurred to him, but now, another fruitless hour behind him, all humor had been lost, and it only reminded him of how much time he had wasted doing nothing.

Wink.

He arrived yesterday, to spend a weekend alone and away from everything. A weekend at his family cottage, alone on a lake of tranquil, tepid blue, and his thoughts would un-jangle themselves into coherent thoughts and sentences and pages and chapters and books. Well, he hoped they would at least.

He came in late in the evening, and he unloaded his food and clothes and sat on the dock to watch the sunset behind the trees across the lake. It was a magnificent purple and red, and he was sure that it would inspire brilliance ... the next morning. He couldn't come up with any thing the first night, so he simply popped some popcorn in the microwave and watched the evening news until he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

He retired to the bedroom upstairs. The large king bed seemed especially empty when he flipped on the switch. The walls were covered with pictures taken from around the lake, pictures of his smiling wife and smiling kids and smiling dog. And a few of his smiling self as well. He promised aloud to call his family the next day, and he went to bed. And now, here he sat, a belly full of poached eggs and dry white toast and 4 slices of Canadian bacon and 2 glasses of orange juice and one of milk, sitting at his kitchen table, iTunes blaring over the wireless speakers, and...

Wink.

Nothing was coming to him. Nothing good at least. He had several ideas, some halfway decent, but no tangible thoughts were arising from the ashes. His mind had burned out, it seemed. Or perhaps it was still just too early. He needed to clear his mind a little; it was bad to sit and do nothing for extended periods of time. He needed to do some lawn work anyway, and maybe he would think of something while riding the lawnmower or trimming the hedges.

While he was raking up the piles of grass, loving the glorious fresh-cut smell, letting it run through his fingers as it fell into the garbage can, he started thinking of a man. A man he knew as a child, or he could have known. This man lived a normal life, or as normal as they come, with a wife and two kids, a boy and a girl. The boy was about his age, or the age of the main character in the story. He always wrote his stories in the first person. But, now, after having rushed into the house and quickly typing all these words down, he drew a blank again. He only stared at the cursor, and it winked back at him.

Wink.

He spent twenty minutes listening to The Killers on his iPod, staring at the cursor and desperately searching for somewhere to go now. What was so peculiar about this man? Was the man even important? Maybe he could tell a story about the man, and then segue into the actual story, kind of like Cormac McCarthy did in No Country for Old Men. And the story about the man could be a metaphor for the whole story. Yea, he liked where this was going. But he still had no idea what the story of the man was, or if it would be any good. All he had was that damn winking cursor, taunting him to come up with something.

He stood up and paced the cabin. He glanced up at the clock in the kitchen, and he thought he could make lunch. He boiled some macaroni noodles and poured in the cheese and made a turkey sandwich with lettuce and mayonnaise. It was good. He ate it on the picnic table on the lawn, not wanting to see the laptop. The sky was a dismal gray, but there were no clouds. It wasn't supposed to rain this weekend, so he wasn't worried.

He took some bread out of the bag when he threw his paper plate out and walked onto the dock. A family of swans was patiently waiting for their tasty snack. One mom, one dad, and four babies. The kids were still partially gray in their feathers, but still adorable. He would have to tell the wife and kids about them when he called. He sat back in front of the laptop screen, but he didn't open his document at first. He browsed his music library for several minutes, trying to find a good block of artists he could listen to, preferably something that he wouldn't have to pay attention to for a while, so he could concentrate on the writing. He couldn't do anything, let alone write, in absolute silence, and the TV would distract him. He settled on Ben Folds.

Wink.

The dreaded file stared him down, but he would not allow himself to distract again. He would write whatever came to him, and he would review it afterwards. Two hours rolled by effortlessly as Ben Folds was succeeded by Billy Idol and then Billy Joel. Somewhere in the middle of "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant," he stopped. He scrolled back to the top of the three-page document, not remembering anything he had written.

It was crap. Pure dribble. He cut out some passages he thought might be salvageable, and deleted the bulk of it. He was now left with half a page of scattered thoughts and nonsensical connections. And the winking cursor. He saved it, closed the laptop, and went back outside. He sat in a lawn chair, staring aimlessly into space, for the better part of half an hour. It was four o'clock on day two of his three-day weekend. He had written hardly anything. Half of the time he had set aside for writing was gone. And he still had no idea what he was writing. He went for a run, with the thought in mind to settle the matter after dinner.

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