The setting is brilliant.
The lone man scribbling furiously in the small room casts an eerie figure of himself. He sits behind a simple wooden desk, computer screen blinking monotonously in front of his tired face. Our protagonist holds a pen, impatiently waiting to bleed ink on paper. Sweat mounts on his forehead. A garrison of ideas flood his mind. Yes, the creative force is with him; and these are the thoughts that turn him on, thoughts that urge him to push pen to crumpled paper. This is the creative dream that drives him to insanity. Juices begin to flow, creative juices albeit, and the writer suddenly stops midway, and shakes his head in solace. He tears off another paper from the writing pad, and presses the delete button on the keyboard; again. That moment was not creative enough. No, that was not enough. The inspiration was insipid. The writer must start all over again...
The session was not creative enough. It was not inspired, and our protagonist has to tap his creative force solely from inspiration, the minute things of life that to some, might go unnoticed. But to him, these are the very depth charges he needs; the life force he requires. These sparks of inspiration, the life ropes; they inspire him, channeling his mind to unimaginable realms. This is the gear that churns the very fabric of his life, the intrinsic brick mortar that binds the bridge of characters and story-lines together. And so our lone writer must stop and re-think. Stop and re-value. Pause and re-energize that bout of creativity that has dissipated into the thin of the night. He takes a large gulp of fresh air, letting the mustiness of the room into his glad lungs. He stares at a charred grey photograph of himself on the desk. This is the way of things when creativity subsides. Colour fades. But he has grown accustomed to it. When the spark is not there, one must spin it out of Its cocoon. One must drag it out of the box. Call it out from the shadows. But the dreary moment soon begins to wear away, as it usually does, and our hero rips up another page from the pad. He presses the space bar key on his keyboard and the caret blinks excitedly, it's whole life depending on the writer pressing the keys.
Our writer is inflamed again. The old spark has been rekindled. The direction has been re-aligned. He stares anxiously, and demurely... and then begins to write blindly.
The energy is with him now. The force is with him.
Outside, darkness sets in under the rolling sky, and the hour grows late. Shadows, and ghosts, and demons and things of the night begin to prowl, lurking in the dark of tides. The moon shines like a lonely halo in the veiled sky. Birds of feather forlornly chirp and hoot and cackle and spit and leap. For our writer, the day has just begun.
Lo and Behold, as minutes slowly tick-tock, a protasis of a play begins to breathe fire. A new story whistles from a hidden corner; another glorious setting beckons on the horizon; a tragic tale looms; another adventure is born and another imagination unravels in front of his eyes...
But like I said before; the setting is important - it has to be brilliant...
