Slowly the words start to form, floating through ether he edits them as they fall into place. Soon he has the beginnings of… something… he’s not quite sure what though. He’ll know better when he sits down in the pale glow of the monitor and submits to the rhythm of the keyboard. He’s been here before and written about this before as well, and he knows that it doesn’t matter where you start just that you do.
Stories are everywhere but equally he finds himself leaning away from personal introspection, away from the humdrum of everyday life, preferring to toy with the cadence of whimsy to see what it might divulge.
I am the walrus. Nonsense and frivolity, sound more important than meaning. Goo goo ka choo.
When there is nothing to write about, why write? To keep the habit going of course, and because sometimes the act has more meaning and power than the outcome. The reasons making themselves apparent with each letter, each peck of the keyboard, fingers failing to keep up as his brain as it plows onwards, always two steps ahead.
Of course, sometimes it fails. Sometimes the words will flow but fall unneeded, scattered on the page, unloved and discarded. The odds are against them. No army of monkeys on typewriters to summon Shakespeare, McGonagall peerless in this company.
With a sigh he pauses. The pause grows from seconds to minutes, minutes to hours, and on it grows, days in the making, heavy with unmet potential. He admonishes himself for writing this way again but there is little else floating to the surface.