|Alex Cavanaugh Presents the IWSG Linky|
Once Upon A Time
a writer stood looking toward the fabled city of El Perfecto, yearning to make the journey to the place where he knew he could write the greatest stories, find the greatest agent and sell to the greatest publisher in the world.
He thought about jumping into his Toyota, but with the price of gas and a dearth of royalties, he chose a humble handcart instead. Into that he piled his old PC and a bag of ideas; then he set off down the road, hopes high--spirits soaring.
At the bend in the road he was stopped by Grandpa Doubt who demanded a lift into the city. Like most writers he was generous of heart and loaded the old man into his cart. Off he set again, but now his progress was slow; Grandpa Doubt weighed more than he appeared to weigh.
At the stream, the writer picked his way over the slippery stones. He didn’t want to fall and land on his butt. As all writers know, a sore butt is great hinderance to their creativity. He managed not to misstep, but, when he came to the other side, Grandpa’s niece, Miss Anxiety waved him down. In her shrill voice she explained how she, too, had to reach El Perfecto before nightfall.
So, mashing his bundle of ideas into one corner, the writer loaded her into his cart. Off they went, but now his pace was so slow that he feared he would never reach the city in time.
At the crossroads Cousin Block held up his traffic-cop hands and demanded they stop right there. Niece Anxiety hopped out, flailing her arms and screeching that he wouldn’t like to see one of her panic attacks, so he should let them pass. Grandpa Doubt was asleep. Who needed him when Cousin Block and Niece Anxiety were going at it?
At last Cousin Block allowed them to pass, but by that time, the writer knew he’d never make El Perfecto that day. Ahead was a sign reading, “Near Perfecto 2 minutes ahead.” Reluctantly, he headed that direction and pulled to a stop at the first coffee shop he saw. Inside, were several writers, their laptop screen glowing, their lips turned into happy arcs, their fingers tap-tap-tapping the computer keyboards.
With his laptop and his bag of ideas, the writer slipped away from Grandpa Doubt and his niece, Anxiety, and entered the shop. Maybe this was a good place to be for the time being. When he sat down and began to write, his lips turned into one of those happy arcs and words flowed across the screen. In a few hours he had a draft of a great story; it just wasn’t perfect yet. But he felt so wonderful that it didn’t matter.
Now I’m off to load my cart and head down the road to El Perfecto. I’m hoping to reach the outskirts by nightfall and, if I hurry, maybe Grandpa Doubt and his niece won’t demand rides. If I hurry, maybe I can slip by Cousin Block . Anyone with me?