A Day in the Life - finale!

Well it's been over a month since I last posted my saga, and I'm almost sad to say... I think it's done. It isn't very long, but I just had to run with my ideas on this one. Thanks for all the critiques! I had a very good critic point out some flaws that I hope I have corrected - thank you Christine D. I appreciate your help! Please I welcome all forms of comments. Don't be afraid to tell me you hate it or that something is wrong. I grow everytime someone shows me my mistakes - which I'm sure there are many! Without any more jabber - here it is...

                                        A Day In The Life of My Paper Clip
    It started on a Tuesday afternoon. I wasn’t quite sure what it meant, but I knew something big had to come from it, or I would be completely screwed. I sat with my laptop poised on my knee, staring at a blank document that I just knew I had to fill with meaningful letters squashed together into words and phrases that made sense to someone… anyone.
    I sat and I sat, willing the wittiness to flow through my body into my hands, allowing my fingers to type some theatrics that made everyone want to stand up and cheer me. But it was as if my creativity had flown away. My gaze changed to the ceiling. Surely something up there would give me the strength or the frame of mind to write.
    Still nothing.
    Finally, giving up, I grabbed a paper clip from my laptop tote bag and stuck it in the corner of my mouth. The cold metal taste soothed my racing wits for a few seconds. It allowed me to collect my thoughts. I wondered what the paper clip would write.
    What would it write if it had little stubby fingers and could grasp a pen? What if by some miracle my paper clip could type a verse, or compose a beautiful melody? My thoughts wandered as I pictured a small little paper clip typing while smoking a stogie, smiling at a funny sentence it had just created out of it’s tiny metal head.
    But all of this imagination was not getting my goal accomplished. I had to write. Millions of people were waiting to read what wisdom I could conjure from thin air. I had to spin a whimsical tale of some sort to sooth their ever growing hunger for more words.
    So I plucked my paper clip from my lips and placed it back in the cold, dark, cave of a bag I used to carry my laptop, and just started typing. I typed endless streams of words that didn’t coincide, but at least they were getting my creativity an exercise. That is when the idea finally came.

                                                               *******

    I was going to write a story completely based on writing a story. I would not have a plot or characters, other than a middle aged, semi-obese writer who could do nothing more than sit and eat kit-kat bars and pray for inspiration to find her. Then of course, she would have to have a side kick to banter with in intellectual verses; where everyone would just be enthralled to see how the ping pong dialogue would end.
    Enter Rosetta the hyperactive feline. She seemed to always be on some mind altering drug. If they made kitty speed, she would be the poster kitty for it. She zoomed and zigged through the apartment like a mad woman running for her life from 12 cannibals. It's as if the only way she could move was to run the exact same speed as a cheetah stalking prey.
    So between the crazy cat and the constant supply of chocolate, our fated heroine seems to have enough on her plate. Unfortunately, that isn't all the story. Our writer has come to a writer's block to end all blocks. Her editor has given her three weeks to come up with her next work of genius, but she can't even get past the paper clip in her bag, the energizer kitty, or the fabulous chocolates she can consume at will.
    What is to become of our fearless leader? Will she succumb to the candy? Will the cat finally break what little sanity she has left? Or is it now time to pull herself up by the proverbial boot straps and admit defeat? I don’t think any of these is an option for someone so talented. Millions of readers can’t be wrong on a subject as profound as this.
    At a time like this it is time to put the candy somewhere where it cannot be easily taken down, lock Rosetta away to zoom around the bathtub like a miniature raceway, and forget about the paper clip. It’s time to really come up with something of substance. It’s time to write.

                                                                    *******

    As if this thought stimulated the last grain of creativity in my cranium, an idea hits me. I open a new document, realizing that in watching Rosetta and eating chocolate I have inadvertently typed crazed ramblings onto my previous document. The ideas seem tentative to start with, but once my fingers start dancing across the keyboard, it is as if they will never be stopped. I see words that I'm not even sure I have consciously thought of appear before me on the glowing screen.
    I type.
    The magnitude of what I'm doing doesn't even seem to hit me. The words keep pouring like a flood of dirty water, hammering down from the underside of a potted plant onto a clean white tile floor. I keep thinking I must be imagining this monumental time when I can just type and type, and see a great story unfold from my consciousness. Yet I'm still not sure exactly where these ideas are coming from.
    Could it be that it doesn't matter where the idea are coming from, it's only relevant that the ideas are coming to me. They have decided to grace my life. I hear a scratching at the bathroom door as Rosetta seems to know that I'm writing, and she wants to come out and distract me. She wants to throw the monkey wrench into my stream of consciousness. I ignore the scratching and continue to type and type, as if my life depends on my typing until my fingers are numb.
    In a way, that is true. My livelihood depends on getting my masterpiece to my editor in three weeks. I have no other skills, I just use my wit to come up with things that people can read and escape from their own realities for a while. If I wasn’t writing, I would probably be flipping burgers. And that is not to say that flipping burgers is not a remarkable skill! Without those many burger chefs, I would not have the sustenance to go on each day and type my cunning narratives. In fact, there should be awards solely for the grandeur that is flipping burgers. I praise them to the highest point. They are my saviors each time I need to feed.

                                                                *******

    So what is there for me to do? I type and continue to reap the rewards of an artist. I seek to meet my fans and be fawned over. There is nothing more sweet than the smell of a newly pressed copy of my own sweat and tears. How long has it been, you may ask? Well, my last work was released over a year ago. My editor seems to think that unless I publish again soon, I will be forgotten.
    There is no way I can be tossed aside. I cannot even bear to think of a life without adoring fans, now that I’ve been spoiled and I know what it is like. So I continue to type. I type like a madwoman. There is no stopping my digits from discussing things of importance with the keys of my laptop.
    The letters spew forth onto the blank white page as if tossed haphazardly to see what I can make. My mind wanders to my magnetic poetry on my refrigerator. I imagine my ideas coming when someone constructs sentences from small white letters and words with magnets on their backs. There is a brief pause in ideas as I think of all the great passages I’ve come up with on my fridge.
    I remember the first one fondly, “Smart reptiles never clean pans with horseradish poles.”
    How funny it seemed at the time, but when it became the main sentence in my first short story, it proved that my $6 expense on the little tiles was well spent. That story went on to put me on the proverbial map of writers. It didn’t make any sense at all to me when I formed the sentence in my kitchen, but I will never forget the nudge it gave me into the world of literature.

                                                                   *******


    Inspiration is such a long word. I’m not so sure my metal bended buddy would be able to pronounce such a word. I’m not even sure if my muse would know how the inspiration drips off of it like sweat off a prize fighter. The hours scream by and my hand cramps from all the phrases and wit that ferociously slammed into my laptop. Is it possible to stop? Do I dare? Will the feeling of non-accomplishment suffocate me? I write as I breathe.
    It flows as the shiny paper clip twinkles in the lamp light. A little wink from it, and more ideas spring to life on the tip of my tongue and kamikaze dive onto the screen. It’s like magic, I’m not even trying. I don’t have control - the spew keeps coming and coming like nobody’s business. I don’t want the feeling to end, because I’m not sure what I could possibly do when the muse looses its’ luster.
    The thought bounces through my mind that maybe I can never stop. Maybe, just maybe, I will continue to write for all time. Then again, time will never end. I will write until the sun doesn’t shine. My hand will continue to type, even when there is no electricity to run my outdated computer.
    I’ll write until I’m gray. I’ll write until every ounce of life has left my body, and then somehow I will simply continue to writ. For some reason, my hands will just keep typing. Time will stop, and as long as my silver twisted friends is by my side, I will keep on typing. It’s as if my muse can extend my life to infinity because it is in my presence And I’m happy that I can just type. For now I know that there are endless opportunities for writing.

                                                                *******


    And then it ends. The idea train stops at it’s destination. No more comes from what I had thought was an infinite supply warehouse of thoughts. I could not squeeze another drop - however small - out of my vast creative pool. It seems to swim by me too fast now. I remember not being able to write at all. Then I remember finding my muse in a small twist of metal. The ideas jump to their death on my laptop document.
    They don’t fight at all. The seem to sacrifice themselves for my benefit. It’s as if my ideas knew my grave predicament. So again, why do I feel so empty? Why does it hurt so much that my rambling had come to an end? For once I’m out of words. I don’t know what to say, and then I look to the bottom of my screen to see the flashing battery light.
    I can’t believe my error, and it hits me that not once have I saved my masterpiece. I hurry to push the magic button to secure my work, and the battery runs out…

                        THE END!