The Writer

Mr. Writer sat at his desk, leaned back as far as he could in his straight-backed chair (which wasn't very far, as you can imagine), and stared at the wall in front of him, waiting for inspiration as he had for- is it really 3 o'clock already?- three hours. He'd meant to put some kind of painting on this particular wall, something inspirational. Something colorful, maybe, to interrupt the bland light olive color that covered every wall of his apartment, save the bathroom. Distantly he heard music from the people living below him. It wasn't bad music, he thought, but a little too indie for his taste. He wasn't about to complain about the sound level, however. The walls were thin, not their fault, and it wasn't all that loud. He could barely make out more than the base. And besides, it was sort of soothing. Just what he needed to focus. He had found, over the years, that he did not work well, was not inspired by silence, or near enough to it. Kandinsky, he recalled, the Russian painter that an old girlfriend of his had admired, -somehow he remembered the painter's name and not hers- came up with the theory that all the fine arts were directly related. Painting, writing, singing, acting; they were all connected. Mr. Writer was convinced he was right. Music certainly helped him write, and write well, if he did say so himself. Maybe the reason he had been sitting in front of a blank notebook for so long was because he needed better music- more inspirational music- to produce better writing. Any writing at all, for that matter.
He stood up carefully -sadly, he was no longer in his prime, and he'd been in that damned chair for longer than his doctor would recommend- and grabbed his battery-operated radio from the shelf. His mother had given it to him for his birthday one year, oh so long ago. He still missed her every now and then. She could play piano better than anyone he'd ever heard, never mind that he'd never heard anyone else play, at least not live like she would, in their living room.
But what to write? How to fill the pages with something full of meaning, substance, inspiration...
God, it's been too long since this head has produced something useful, he thought. Something inspirational, he automatically corrected himself, again. Again? Why did he have to keep editing his thoughts this way? When did this happen?
The weather and traffic report was being announced on the radio. Did he say 30% chance of rain? He should Really get back to work...
NO!He realized with self-loathing he had become something no respectable artist in any field wants to become, would rather die a peculiar death (because that is the only way an artist can go) than think the thoughts he was thinking. He no longer saw his profession as a lifestyle, but as a profession. A job. A chore. An assignment, a burden, labor, effort, means, a task, an occupation. You didn't write to pay the bills, you wrote because you had something to say but thought it would look better on paper. Or maybe the people you wanted to listen were too far away to hear you. Regardless, writing-good writing-was done because you cared about the subject of which you wrote about. He was ashamed. Repugnant, even.
He felt his only choice was to abandon what he now seemed to call his 'career'. Apply for a different job. Like an accountant, or something just as bland, because he felt that was exactly what he deserved. He knew his mind-set was such about writing now because he was bored, that could be the only explanation. To bore of writing was...a sin, you might say! If he were Catholic he certainly would say that, simply because he was under the impression that Catholics called most everything a sin. But this sin was just as bad as...no, worse than murder. This was the butchery of one of the Fine Arts. He deserved to serve the drab purgatory he has made for himself for the remainder of his years. Talk about ultimatums, Mr. Writer thought grimly.
He stared at his hands, the same ones who hadn't moved from their poise since he sat down so many hours ago, (You've got to be kidding, it's already half-past six? Where does the time go?) His left hand palmed flat on the desk, the right gripping a tilted pen ready to scribble down any and all of his thoughts into his notebook...if he had any thoughts worth writing. If he had any thoughts.
He sat at his desk, leaned back as far as he could in his straight-backed chair, and stared at the light-olive colored wall in front of him. Maybe he'd put a Kandinsky painting there, he'd been meaning to put something useful-something colorful- in that spot, to interrupt the bland walls that were the same everywhere save the bathroom.