The Writer

It was 4:00am - the time of the day when the world, or most of it, was either asleep, or was having semi-conscious sex.

He was at his desk. A mug of coffee by his side, a cluttered desk filled with books, pen stands and notes and staring into his eyes, was a blank computer screen. 

He stared back at it. 

Or so it looked like because he was not present in that reality. He was looking into another dimension, maybe into another realm through a portal in his mind into another world where story-dust was swirling to form nebulous shapes and plots.

He saw a character was forming and it was showing its traits, some strange quirks of its own personality.

The writer was impressed. He had never imagined this character before. Especially the way it said "Shei, Shei" whenever he made a mistake - yes, it was a man. 

And he was a .... Butler?
He had no idea where did "Shei, shei" come into his mind. He never used the phrase and had never heard anyone use it as well. He did not remember reading it anywhere too. It was just his character's quirk - that queasy little imperfection that we all carry, which is uniquely our own, and thus, making us tolerable.

Perfection is irritating. It's a constant stress for the beholder. Look at Hrithik Roshan. Wouldn't he be more tolerable if he would just try to relax a bit? That was the reason he was such a heart-throb when he started out. He was the plain-guy next door- a good looking chap, you can call in for a beer. And yea, he could dance really well.

But then, he had to go and become this plastic "Greek God" and destroy the very thing which made him endearing. People do not like Greek gods. They like awe-inspiring humans. Humans with character flaws. 

And so the character continued to say "Shei, shei" and the writer allowed him to.

Blank Page. The cursor blinked in quiet expectation. And the writer continued to stare at it.

Weird?

Probably is, if someone were to look at him and saw him staring into the monitor for the past twenty minutes. But then it would also have been creepy as hell, if someone were to look at him from a dark corner of the room at 4:20 am in the morning, while the world, or most of it, was asleep or having semi-conscious sex.

"Is he constipated?" he asked. 

(Who asked? I don’t know. I want to use this phrase)

"Is he constipated?"  a gremlin would have asked if it would have been sitting on top of a roof beam with nothing better to do than watch a writer trying to write.

"Literally or literary?"  the gremlin's wise-assed friend would have asked..

"Hahahah" and they both would have laughed a quiet, inaudible, gremlin laugh.

But then there were no gremlins. So no one had the above conversation.

Click. Clack. Clickitty-Clack-Clack.

He was typing!!!

Yes!

Did he finally get something to write about his "Shei, shei" saying character?

Click. Clack. Clickitty-Clack-Clack.

Click. Clack. Clickitty-Clack-Clack.

Click. Clack. Clickitty-Clack-Clack.

And the dawn sneaked in.

**********The End*********