A split screen dully displays the frenzied words that come from Jake’s scraped keyboard. The mechanic click-clacking fills the room, the vibrations bouncing off the tilted hinges of his cupboard, the loose knobs on the burner, and burrowing into the anxious, beating heart inside of Jake’s chest.
A ping from his computer stops his erratic typing. Slowly, he switches tabs, clicking on his email. It’s from his editor, demanding to know when the story will be finished. Jake clicks off the email, staring at the five previous emails from his editor, the same request echoed in Jake’s inbox, growing digital cobwebs with each passing day.
The clump of words plastered uniformly on the white computer background held as much meaning as broken glass dangling from the ceiling, with no ground from which they could be stared at. Sharp, intriguing, yet with no way to access it. Not to mention, it was incomplete, or more accurately, had so many pieces taken out that it couldn’t even be considered an abstract chandelier.
“It just needs more time”, A phrase Jake had whispered to himself, time and time again – an attempt to escape the very truth it blankets itself as. Something that Jake pretended would ease his worries, the ones that kept pushing him to take and add, take and add, take and add, without giving room for growth.
A pause that lingers too long, a minute or two, or five, then the passage doesn’t fit. “This doesn’t make sense.” “Now it’s too obvious.” “It feels too cliché.” The flow of words transforms into a trainwreck of thoughts, pushing the original idea aside in favor of something more exciting, more new.
Frustration builds, bubbling like a cheap cola, overspilling like a boiling pot of water. Jake stops. He breathes, looking at the old, barely functioning screen in front of him, then at the ripped envelopes beside him, some of past postcards, others of past due bills. “Not yet,” he echoed to himself. “Just one last try.”
