Sensuous, Sexually Driven Flirtation With Writer's Block.
He had tried starting In Medias Res but the burning sensation of cliche which caught fire to his mind kept pulling him back.
He had read Paradise Lost twice.
He had gone to the theatre and watched Antony and Cleopatra, hoping the bard’s flashing images of the Egyptian Queen’s river boat carrying her along beneath the sun with its sails gorging themselves on the wind would tease some inspiration out of his blood.
He had started listening to heavy metal. That hadn’t helped at all. It had only given him a headache.
He knew character’s characteristics and had characterized them as best he could in the recesses of his thought patterns; where tenuous links with his other works in progress fused together in a tangled chicken mesh coup of intricate plot devices.
He had worked out that his was a tale of unrequited love, deceit, treachery and betrayal set against the backdrop of the Crimean War, influenced by Marxist feminist philosophies with several scenes taking place in space.
In short, he was fucked.
He recited extracts of phrases and merged them together in stunning patterns of soliloquies and monologues. Sometimes he used descriptive passages which flowed through his skin, stretching tendrils of half-formed voices across pages thin as silk.
He put biro to lined paper then changed the biro to a fountain pen for aesthetic reasons then changed the lined paper for a note pad then changed tack and bought a type writer. The type writer was rusty and he couldn’t upload what he’d written to facebook or send it as an e-mail so he bought a lap-top. He left that on the bus so he bought a Mac.
Having a Mac didn’t make him a writer like the man in the shop said. He stared at a blank document as swallows flitted and flirted with one another in the sky outside, and the willow branches painted brush strokes of fresh air on the wind.
He decided to start his masterpiece by writing the end first.