Three A.M., a young writer with a severe case of creative block clacks away on his typewriter. Yeah, he’s old school like that. He decided a long time ago that while modern writing tech is a beautiful thing for some, it’s just not his. He types randomly, nothing particularly coherent at that moment.
This is a kind of exercise he often does when he has a block, still keeping his fingers primed in case some great spark of inspiration comes.
He’s seen a lot of shows & things recently, you’d think they’d give him inspiration, but he wants something at least fairly original, not recycled ad nauseum, not completely done to death.
“MEH” he thinks, saying it out loud to himself. He often did that too, the thinking out loud. It was one of several things his friends called politely, “eccentricities”.
Suddenly, almost as if on cue, his phone begins to ring…
On the line, it’s his father. “Go to the airport, there’s a ticket waiting there for you, it’s already paid for in advance” says the old man. “Yes, Sir” the young man replies respectfully, as he had done since as far back as he could remember. “What’s going on?”
“I’m flying you out to Florida this weekend, for my & your mother’s anniversary” the old man said. Suddenly, the young writer has the spark of inspiration he’s been waiting on. He decides that while he’s down in Florida, he’ll interview his parents.
They’ve been together several years, & he can’t wait to tell their story.