Flipping over yesterday’s production sheets, he’d written out a few plot points on the back while waiting for the few customers that came in.
Then, after driving his friend home, he’d headed back to his house.
Everyone was already in bed, so he poured himself some bourbon he’d gotten for Christmas in a glass , threw in some ice, sat at the computer, opened a file on Scrivener and started.
As a lark, he’d downloaded an app that simulated typing noises and as he typed out the story, the clicks reminded him of when he was a teen, five thousand miles away back in the upstairs bedroom he shared with his brothers at the time, just starting out as a writer, typing on a hand me down Selectric II that his father had brought home from the office when they upgraded in the early Eighties.
He knew the opening scene and the last line, which had made him laugh when it had come to him earlier that evening.
He lost momentum around the three hundred word mark, but rallied and ended pretty strongly he thought.
Just as the day ticked over into the next, he finished and sent it off, then drained the last of the watered down bourbon and got ready for bed.
The next morning, while the coffee brewed and the toast toasted, he went on the computer to check emails.While there, he decided to see if they’d put his story up yet.
There it was.
Even after a dozen or so acceptances, it always made his heart skip a semi-beat to see his work on-screen.
Already, there were a couple other stories up in the “Longer Stories” section of the site.
Some already had comments .
He was about to read through them when he heard the toaster pop.
He got his breakfast and ate it too quickly, having to go get a glass of water to fight the indigestion that followed.
Later, at work, there were a lot of things that needed his attention straight away, so he didn’t get a break until just before lunch.
While he drank another cup of coffee, he checked the site again to see if there was any response.
Zero comments.
He looked at the story above his.
Eight comments.
Six more than when he’d left for work.
He read the story.
It was cute and well-written, putting a spin on a literary trope.
It was a good story.
But eight comments good?
He thought his was just as good and so far nothing.
Never mind that his last two stories had gotten lots of comments.
Why not this one?
He stopped for a second.
Was he really that needy, getting antsy that strangers were not commenting on something that he had literally wrote in the time it took to have a drink the night before?
Wow, he thought, this is why artists die young; we’re all neurotic messes.