Bulb Lights and Bud Lights

There’s nothing more depressing than staring at a computer screen in a dark room far too early in the morning in the hopes that somehow, a great story is going to start writing itself. Grant knew this all too well, yet there he was again, almost glowering at his Macintosh, willing his fingers to start dancing across the keyboard. The window was cracked slightly open and a faint breeze was drifting in, but that didn’t seem to alleviate his concentration. Grant was determined to “get a story done” before he went off to work, but of course, that’s what he told himself every morning. 

I always found it funny how stubborn writers could be. Sure, some are able to render entire civilizations from just a few strokes of a keyboard, and yet others stare at those same keys so long they begin to forget what they all mean. What it all comes down to is control: every writer thinks they have it, especially Grant. One of his stories I happened to read (don’t let him know, by the way) was about a sheep who felt he didn’t have any individual representation, in relation to the group thought of his herd, and when he goes out to find it, he ends up being shot by the paranoid shepard, in an attempt to protect the rest of his flock from what the shepard thought was a wolf. It’s kind of sickening, actually, the twisted grin he had on his face while he was writing that one. Poor Percival.

Anyway, Grant spends most of his nights staring at his computer, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and most likely over exposure to the fucking screen. He’s lucky he lives alone, which to be fair was a decision of his to maintain that control over his own life. For someone so paranoid about losing control over the little life that he had left, one would think that a person like Grant would choose a life of sobriety. 

Bulb lights strung the apartment like meat in a butcher shop. All Grant liked was plain white lights, so when he was nice and “sauteéd,” as he was fond of saying to himself alone in his apartment at 4PM on Tuesdays, he would turn on all the bulb lights and all the overhead lighting would go out. The further the afternoon/evenings went on, the more reflective Grant’s cheeks became, and the less progress he’d make on his stories. The toughest part about being a writer is that you actually have to fucking write. It seems like some writers think that drinking is the first step and writing is the second. A lot of them actually feel they do better drunk, too. 

It’s hard to see Grant like this. Every once in a while he’ll be in a groove and his fingers bang out a pretty good story, but most of the time they hover or play with his balls while he sits there breathing open-mouthed staring at that god damn monitor, drool pooling up at the corner of his mouth every once in a while. I won’t even begin to describe the odor that hung in that apartment. 

Tonight was a shitty story. The more sober he’d get, the more bulb lights would go out. As more of them go out, Grant tended to get angrier and scowl more. One night he was so upset he ripped down the last few strips of lights and threw them at the wall. Often when he strung up all those lights, he’d leave his Macintosh unplugged, so he could get as many lights as possible up along the walls. 

We’re down to one strand. 

I don’t know why, but his glass is full again. This time, it’s just straight scotch. He must think he’s actually got something good here, which seems a lot more like desperation than confidence. It’s about a girl this time, even though the last girl he was with (in the most literal sense of the word) left him months ago, and he’s trying to write as fast as he can. I’m actually getting really uncomfortable, I don’t like how aggressive he’s being. Why is he still drinking? When did he rip down the last lights? Why is he pouring