The Ghostwriters
Oh, there you are!
Her cheerful face was the last thing he could stand.
Why are you so happy, he snapped, can't you see that I'm writing! Why is it that you always have to disrupt when I'm in the middle of a good story?
He refused to watch her bottom lip quiver and her eyes water. Her hand shook as she placed the hot cup of coffee and croissant on his desk.
All she saw was a sea of wads of paper scattered across the room he so proudly called the domain of his creative mind.
How many times I've told you, even begged, not to bother me about trivial matters!
He furiously wiped the lovingly prepared cup of coffee and fresh croissant off his desk.
Get out, he shouted, get out.
When was the last time he wrote something, he was able to enchant someone with his words, something he could never have done with his appearance? The publisher had had enough of him and his endless excuses about why the long-promised manuscript didn't arrive. How many years had passed that his mind was as blank as the paper in front of him?
He had always laughed at those who suffered from writer's block. His response had always been the same when the subject was brought up: Excuses from a bunch of lazy idiots. A real writer writes, never lacks words.
A thousand words a day, his latest publication would be in the bookstores within the allotted time. A thousand words a day, he would have laughed about that number before, he'd easily written off 10,000. Now he couldn't even think of a storyline let alone a few words to write about.
Even that tip to write down as many words that came to mind was an impossible task. The writing pad in front of him remained blank, the ink in his pen had dried.
Is he dead?
He doesn't look well, did you hear how he treated her? And that after everything she...
Jealous of her success, said the only lady of the trio. I'm sure you two are familiar with that. Jealous and stubborn...
The other two stared at the grey-skinned man lying across the desk. He looked vaguely familiar.
Shall we give him a hand, the eldest suggested?
No way! He has exiled us and we no longer have access to his mind, let him ask for help from his psychiatrist, she's specialized in stubborn idiots. If he had bundled all his idiotic scribblings, that book would have been published decades ago.
Agatha is right, Charles said, that man is spoiled by his lazy life. Spoiled to the bone. Those who don't experience anything don't need a creative mind, they are dead.
He tried to poke in the man's back.
When was the last time that man read anything? Do you see all these books? Still in the foil!
Agitated Charles floated up and down in front of the bookcase.
Antarah was silent. C.D. wasn't wrong, although he had to admit that not every poem assigned to him was actually written by him. His fame had outstripped his abilities more than once. Was that why he was still floating around on Earth?
Fine, Agatha decided who secretly couldn't resist solving a mystery, but this is the very last time.
Charles quickly wrote down a number and a few prompts while Agatha created a storyline from the thrown-away scribbles. Three books ended up on the desk of the person who refused to admit that he wasn't the wordsmith he thought he was. With a thump, a fourth book, a collection of poems, landed on the man's skull, he groaned softly.
You idiot, Agatha whispered in his ear, wake up, call your doctor and take a shower!
Let's share that croissant, Antarah suggested, not dissatisfied the first battle has been won.
Just leave that doggerel of yours, I finally want to rest in peace, grumbled Charles, who was more interested in a story about orphans and life on the street. He tried to hide the fact that this new age with homeless inspired him.
Laughing, the trio faded before the eyes of the man who didn't know whether he was awake or dreaming, but in any case had made the decision that he needed help. With trembling fingers, he dialled the number left on his desk. The first step to a bestseller had been taken.
5-2-2024
This story is posted on Steemit.com today
