The death of a writer

She set her glass down on the table. Looking around she takes in her surroundings. Familiar faces dot the room but she doesn't know a single name. Scarred tables and mismatched chairs are scattered throughout. The decor is sadly matched to the patrons. There is no conversation. An old jukebox emits a low murmur in the corner. The same sad songs play over and over.

Her mind wanders to earlier this afternoon. She sat in an internet cafe frantically trying to figure out what to type. Line after line she wrote and quickly erased. Another day gone by, another chance blown. Her deadline was fast approaching and she hadn't even begun. She was lost and confused within the confines of her own mind.

The waitress walks by and she waves her down with a flick of her wrist. Her drink ordered she retreats back to her solitude. Her shoulders sag and her head drops to her palm. The last six years have been brutal. Her career has stalled and she has no idea why. Writing has been been her outlet, her confidante, her crutch for as long as she can remember.

As a child the words flowed faster than she could put the pen to paper. Inspiration was everywhere. The abandoned barn down the road, a crying child in the park. Just a glimpse of a scene or even a memory and the story would start to unfold. Thousands of notebooks sat in her basement holding tales both real and not.

But these days the ink was dry and the paper all gone. No matter what she did the words just wouldn't come. Day after day she typed and then erased. And night after night she came back to the same place. And nothing ever changed. The smoky room, though comfortable and familiar, didn't give her any peace. In fact it only reminded her of her shame. Her failed marriage, her declining career, her lonely existence.

Her parents had died many years ago and she was an only child. That's probably why she wrote so much. She could go anywhere and be anyone she wanted in the pages of her stories. And that carried her well into adulthood as well. She was a New York Times bestselling author and had a wall full of awards. Book signings and interviews brought her around the world and back. There was a party every night and she rarely missed one.

But fame and fortune are a lonely place to live. She never was able to be herself unless she was behind the pen. That wall, made from paper and pen, was why her husband left after years of silence. He tried, she would give him that. He fought, he begged, he demanded. But she clung to her solitude like a child with a blanky. After the very public divorce she retreated even more into herself. She immersed herself into her career.

Silently through night her enemy had moved closer and closer. The stage was set and the show was about to begin. Her isolation and self doubt had stripped her bare. Cold and unprotected she had been looking for relief. Something to keep her warm and dull the pain. Without her knowledge her writing had been replaced with a fragrant new friend. Smooth and silky scotch. Neat and tidy she thought it offered everything she ever needed.