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The Agitated Author

A Short Reminiscence of One Early Morning Preparing for the Day Ahead

By Caleb ShermanPublished 6 years ago 3 min read
1

This is how it begins.

My morning routine, uninterrupted, goes off without a hitch. Unemployment would suit me if not for the lack of funding. The dishes are washing, the laundry is going, and I have settled into my computer chair for a morning and afternoon of recording games.

This is all well and good, just how I aimed to spend my day, until something—there is no way of knowing what—strikes my mind. My memory suddenly jogged I find my body grows restless in this chair. Why?

"Willow."

I don't know what revived the thought, but in seconds I am rushing to the back of my home, to the far corner of my room. I pull my nightstand aside, revealing a forgotten folder. Inside are two dozen or more abandoned stories. Fantasies and futurisms, both the mundane and extraordinary. I rip out a sheath of paper, fraying one lost story, as I hope, I pray to whatever force is listening, that I wrote his story down.

Some miracle has occurred, some greater force is at work, not only is the first set of dog-eared papers exactly what I sought, but it is in tact. This is not some brain-stormed, bullet-pointed assembly of madness. It is a full written summary.

There is no time to pour over the full contents of the three pages, I have to prepare myself. The coffee pumping caffeine into my system is hardly enough, and my cup has emptied since the morning's brew. I set to work on a new cup, yes—cup. I spent most of my life in a house with a coffee pot, when some years ago I received a single serving flex-brew pot I was uncertain how to feel. I have since adapted, but—today of all days—I am agitated with it.

In the process of dumping the previous grounds I drop the mesh filter into the trash. There is no time for the dishwasher, already pumping away at last night's dinner dishes. I run scalding hot water over the blasted thing and hand wash it myself, retrieving burnt red hands I rush over and fill the brewer with a cup of water, slide the filter into place, and begin the brew.

I have a moment, and it is time to clean off my workspace. The computer desk will not suit, it is coated in recording equipment and gaming paraphernalia. I retrieve my laptop and bring it to the den, setting it on my wife's piano as I begin the task ahead. I received a writing desk some time ago, well, I call it the writing desk, but since acquiring it inspiration has been slim and it became piled with the materials of day to day tasks. In a swift motion I tear from their place some 13 sticky-notes with “to-do lists” on them. Following this I reconnect the abandoned lamp in the corner, and move aside the packs of gum and notepads that remain. I drape the laptop's power cord across the piano, setting off several of the keys that are not yet muted by time, disturbing the cats resting atop it. Finally, I set the papers down on the desk, ready for review, ready for reproduction.

I scurry back to the kitchen, retrieving my cup of hot liquid I rush back to my desk, no time for the normal intricacies of sugar and milk. At last, I am ready to begin work. I give the papers a brief glance over. A word document springs to life on my computer at the twitch of my mouse hand. I reach over for the coffee and bring it to my lips.

Hot water…

Willow will have to wait.

literature
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About the Creator

Caleb Sherman

Twitch.tv streamer (Amnesia Duck), retro game enthusiast (don't ask me about Ataris though), lucky husband, and author.

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