It looked like a nice place to start. Finta looked around. It was a new blank page, not even a paragraph yet. There was a chance it could turn into an interesting story.
Providing he didn’t get distracted again.
She’d been here in a similar situation only a few days ago, preparing to start a story here in the first paragraph of a blank page. She was waiting for the story to begin and he just wandered off to write about something else completely.
Finta was beginning to think he’d lost it.
There was a time… oh, a few years ago now, when you could trust him to come up with something, at least enough to reach the 500 word target of his daily writing exercise. It could be a fragment of a story, or it could be some nonsense about the philosophy of cheese, or the story of the search for the east pole, or some other such bollocks. Usually there was at least something there for a protagonist like her to get involved in.
These days though… well, she didn’t know what had happened. But these days it was often just 500 words of pointless meandering.
At first, she thought he just needed a rest. After all, day after day of coming up with something new had to be wearying. Sometimes, though, he came up with something so off the wall she had to worry about what sanity he had left.
These days, though, it was as if he had no imagination at all. Often he would write 500 words about how he couldn’t think of anything to write, or work out some grandiose plan to get his mojo back.
Not that his mojo had been that good to begin with.
Oh, there had been something there Finta could admit that. Somehow, though, the potential had never realised itself.
These days, even 500 words first thing in the morning looked too much for him. Here he was 300 words into today’s effort had she had hardly moved from the first paragraph. She knew it was not what readers wanted these days. She saw other central characters, other protagonists out there getting on with their stories, getting straight into the action, and here she was waiting for him to come up with something slightly amusing about cheese, or marmosets.
Ah, marmosets, those were the days… and what was that other favourite of his… wallabies, that was it.
He could be funny in those days. Even Finta had laughed, and she’d seen what went on in his mind. She knew about that stuff even he would not write down… stuff that was only funny to him for… well, for some obscure reason.
Anyway, she was beginning to think it was over. Maybe she should find some other writer who would give her a proper story, something that had more than just a beginning, something that didn’t wander off into inconsequentiality and…
He was even forgetting words these days.
He was also forgetting how to come up with some sort of ending that tied all the disparate strands together to give the illusion that he knew what he was doing.
These days the things he wrote just faded out, or ended suddenly, right in the middle of….