Rough Draft

"It's always about the words." I repeated to myself. "Imagery comes and goes, but the words are what make the story go round."
"Paul?"
"Yes dear."
"Can you come here please?"
"One moment dear."
I type with a fever, but the more I type the less I like. The words seem to come out sounding cardboard. What should I do; read a book to get inspired?
"Paul, please can you come?"
"Give me a minute please."
I know, I can go back to my old manuscripts and shorten one of my stories up a bit and use that. No, those were meant to be longer stories. This story should be really short. Ok, what should the theme be?
"Dad, can you help me with my homework?"
"Give me a minute buddy."
I was meant to be a writer. Some people say that forty-two is late to start a career, but at some point a man realizes he must do more with his life. For me, that time is now. What was it that Viktor Frankl said? "the last of the human freedoms - to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way." That is me. I choose to be a writer no matter what. Alright, let's get started.
Sveen got to work pulling the treasure chest from its resting place by tying one end of a rope to a handle and wrapping the other end around a palm tree for leverage.
"Honey, can you let the dog in?"
"I'm in the middle of something. He can stay outside for a bit."
Where was I? Oh, yea...
"Honey, the dog needs to come in now!"
Oh, to hell with it! I will start writing tomorrow when everyone leaves the house.