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Lazy Excerpt Page #2

November 7, 2006

//// I might just well post the entire ‘novel’ in here, if this laziness continues////

Back to the dream. He frowned. What had been happening to the writer again? A call from the editor, “You’ve got to get out more, breathe in some of that fresh sea breeze that you’re always telling me about. Go sail your yacht, go ride your ponies, just get out of your house, you know.” Ah yes, the writer had been stuck, or more accurately, was sticking himself, to his home. And for quite some time too. The editor was being rather prissy about the fact that, even at home, the writer wasn’t churning out anything at all. Writer’s block, was it? No, it was more like one of those pits one sees in the cartoons, where the colorful characters fall, and fall, and fall quite endlessly. Those pits where the character is meant to be falling into permanently, but that never happens, because as much as the animators might want to minimize production costs by showing one screen and background indefinitely, the cursed viewers have to be taken into consideration as well.

At any rate, the writer was refusing to leave home. The editor was haranguing into the phone.

“Isn’t that why you bought that home on the waterfront? There’s quite a lovely view of the bay from the south eastern section of your estate… Really now, Al, you just need a wee bit of inspiration, you see, ” The writer smiled oddly and slammed the phone down on the receiver. He stood up and went to the window. It overlooked the bay, and certainly, a wonderful view it was too.

The man smiled as he remembered the panorama he had seen, those crystal clear seas, a yacht or two in the water, a clear blue sky with the sun shining like a glass marble on a super strength Maglite torch. Fantastic. He wondered if he should ask someone to find him a place like that. One of these days, perhaps. He stood up, yawning, and stretched.

The writer had done the same. He was in his pajamas, a pretty nice looking pair of blue checkered, long sleeved shirt and pants. There were a pair of dark rimmed glasses in his chest pocket, which he put on ponderously, and most precariously, on the end of his nose. The effect was that his face aged considerably, previously he could have been no more than thirty, now he looked no less than seventy five, especially when he looked blearily at the enormous wall clock that showed it was 3 hours and 27 minutes past noon. He cocked his head thoughtfully at the clock and crossed over to crumple down on his most comfortable looking sofa.

The man wished he had chosen something like that to sleep on yesterday night. One of those ugly puffy things with worn, brown leather upholstery, covered by a tapestry like blanket. Ugly, yet when one sank one’s bottom on them, one feels a sense of pervasive bliss, and wishes that life was like that, safe and enveloping without all that nonsense about style and insubstance. Anyway that sofa sure looked good. The writer was slowly nodding off while at the process of apparently studying the patterned plaster ceiling. By the by the door to the study – that was what it felt like, with the walls of built in and fully occupied bookshelves containing such weighty topics as Calculus and Financial Planning for the Untrained Financial Planner Novice, 3rd Edition and a Half.

Now, by the by, the door to the study burst open and in tumbled a girl who could have been no younger than nineteen, and no older than twenty. The writer gave a start and smiled sheepishly. “Hey dad, nice to see you awake before six for once,” the girl said cheerfully. The writer shrugged and sat up straighter. “Mom says tea’s out, wanna go try out her latest scones?” The writer visibly winced, and his daughter laughed out loud and waved her hand, jingling the numerous silver bands around her right wrist. “They’ve gotten a lot better, I swear! Come on, dad, ” she said, taking his hand, and led him out of the room.

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