"The Hopeless Novel"
by Eric Stauffer

Pen against the naked, mocking paper, his hand froze. The pen simply wouldn't move. 'Come on, Tom. You can do this. Focus.' Lighting a Marlboro, he stared at the paper in the same manner a boxer stares down his opponent before a fight. The sounds of the diner- soft convorsation, an infant crying, the occasional breaking glass- faded into a dull drone.

'Focus.'

The immobile bic ballpoint, refusing to budge, was now angrily pressing an indent into the page, and many previous pages that contained no more than a few opening sentences or title ideas, all scribbled out. In truth, this manuscript had more coffee stains than ink.

'Focus.' He closed his eyes, taking a deep drag of his ciggerette.

'I'm Hungry.'

'Maybe I'll get a bagel.'

'Focus.'

'Cream cheese is good on bagels.'

'I hope my waitress is hot.'

'Focus'

'Didn't Ghandi say fasting helped to clarify the mind?'

'Or was it Abe Lincon?'

'Focus.'

'Abe. Babe.'

'I hope my waitress is a babe.'

Frustrated, he dropped the pen to find his hand throbbing. It probably wouldn't be aching if it got more excersise. Tom's mind, like the mind of most writers, was in utter chaos. It was a massive electrical storm, not a single bolt of lightning ever striking anything- a swarming beehive with no honey to collect. Rubbing his eyes, he groaned softly.

When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by those of a middle aged woman, stringy brown hair thrown into a worn hair net.

"Still workin' on that novel, Thomas?" she asked, pouring fresh coffee into his empty ceramic mug. Crushing out his ciggerette into the round glass ash tray, he simply nodded.

'Kathy must have been working here for fifteen plus years. Doubt she dreamed of becoming a 24 hour diner waitress as a young girl. Probably hoped to be a dancer, or a movie god. Maybe a famous musician.' he thought, watching her wipe off an abandoned table.

Staring back down at the empty notebook, Tom wondered for the first time where he'd end up if his writing didn't take off as planned. Maybe it all wouldn't work. Maybe he'd end up in a Mc'Donalds drive through, or roofing houses with illegal immigrants and ex convicts. Lighting another smoke, Tom smiled and pushed those thoughts out of his mind, for he knew one thing:

It's better to have dreams crushed than to not dream at all.

- End.