Short Story of a Writer – IMAGINE THAT
Photo credit: octaviolopez from morguefile.com
What? You think it’s criminal to have a creative mind? My problem is that I have an imagination on steroids. I am a freak of nature or in layman’s term a writer. Girls don’t fashion guys like us. We stand alone. So alone. Plus the charades of courting and dating and wooing have become such a cliché. It’s all very hard work and you have to be on your toes all the time. Big romantic gestures at equal intervals of time or else you will know from her next status update that you have been relieved from your post as boyfriend. And you are left with that twitchy ankle from being on your toes all the while.
Thank god for Sophie. She is different from the pack. She is beautiful and intelligent. I can’t decide if she is more intelligent or more beautiful. She doesn’t like romantic gestures. All she wants is intelligent conversations. In fact my ripostes are what drew her to me. So we have never been out for a romantic dinner or played the ‘you hang up’ game over telephone. I told her once that she is very ‘Sophie’sticated and she kept laughing for an hour. All you should look for in a girl is intelligence. Everything else is just elaborate lies.
One day I put hair dye all over my head and face. I went up to her and asked “will you honour a ‘dye’ing man’s wish?”. We are engaged now even though she gave me hell for ruining the rug. In her opinion, the rug was an important element in lending some class to the room which was dull otherwise.
She sits by me while I write. I get into a zone while writing. The characters come out and play out the plot in front of me. They pause for my instruction before each dialogue. I sit and watch like a referee, intervening only when required. Sometimes the characters blend so seamlessly and I feel like Sophie is also one of them.
I have hit a block now and my publisher is giving me hell. I guess my elixir of talent has run out. I don’t know what to do with Mike, my protagonist. May be Sophie can help me. My brain was on overdrive when I entered the house. And there she was. Sophie, hand-in-hand with Mike. She was playing with her hair, giggling and whispering. I barely recognised her. By the looks of it, I don’t have to worry about Mike anymore. But how could she do this to me. And now I wonder, was she ever in love with me? The room has changed its appearance akin to the lover’s bliss. The dim light melancholy of my dungeon has given way for sunlight and jasmines on the window sill. I hardly recognise my own room. My presence doesn’t seem to bother them. They are in their own world. I look for the dye stains on the rug. They are not there.
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