The first sentence is always the hardest for me.
Once I get that one down, everything else flows so easily.
I can be writing about anything and the story is always the same. I sit down in front of my typewriter, crack my knuckles, and…
All day I have thought about what I am going to say. I even devised some really good ways to say it. I have come up with some witty jokes to throw in at just the right times to keep the reader interested.
The deadline kills all of that. I have to turn in my story before the evening edition goes to the presses or I will lose my job.
My last piece was about female fashion, thrown together at the last minute. I had a homeless man draw some sketches of the things he had seen during his time begging outside of The Palace Clothing Store.
It was a surprisingly big hit.
I had planned to give the man part of my earnings, but I decided to buy a new tie instead.
He was outside as I walked in, but I ignored him. I really needed a new tie.
I have four hours to get this story turned in.
But I have nothing.
Not one solitary word.
I want to write about the new Knox Model C, but I have no idea how to begin.
It is a decent car. Not the greatest.
But I have to make it sound good because the editor in chief drives one and he is very defensive about his cars.
I could write about women’s clothing again, but without that vagrant’s sketches, the impact would just not be the same.
People would get bored.
And I do not think people want to read about fashion.
There is not any future in fashion writing.
I take another long drink and look at my typewriter.
That tasted strange.
These stories never write themselves.
My hands and feet are starting to feel numb. I think I have been sitting for too long.
Standing is sure hard.
This room is rocking and spinning.
What is happening to me?
Why is that Paris Green open next to my typewriter?