The room is dark and quiet, at least until the muffled sound of objects falling over and a woman’s muttered curses break the silence. After a few moments, and some more grumbling, a light clicks on, flooding the room with a soft golden hue.
The writer heads to her coffee machine, for although her muse will not wait for morning, she insists on her caffeine. A cup later, and the writer has seated herself at her desk, a patchwork combination of stained wood and scattered papers.
She sweeps everything but a solitary notebook off its surface, scarcely noticing the proliferation of half-completed work drifting to the ground beneath her chair. Turning the book to the first page, she lifts a pen precariously.
Moments pass as she contemplates what to say, but soon she begins. Her ink scatters words, and from them a burst of color emerges. The colors swirl around her, but the writer, intent on her work, does not notice. The colors morph into a café, and soon she finds herself in a different place entirely.
She pauses in her work, inhaling the scent of her night-time rejuvenation. Having set the mood, she continues on.
Two lovers take shape near the counter, whispering to each other sweet nothings and grinning like the Mad Hatter. She strides towards them, her hands already twitching from the tale. Gradually, the two begin to lift their voices, and the writer cries as she encourages them forward.
One storms towards the door, and the writer waves a half-hearted goodbye. When he is gone, she turns back to the crestfallen woman on the bar-stool.
This was not where the story began, but it was her favorite part, the writer realizes. This was the story that her muse had dragged her out of bed at 2 A.M. to write. So, she lifts her pen, and she begins to write the tears that slip from her protagonist’s eyes.
The sob of a broken heart fills the room, crushing each of the walls she had built up to write this scene. For a moment, the writer stops writing.
The coffee shop disappears, replaced by the old attic-turned-office. Golden light fills her tired eyes, and the writer lifts her drink to her lips again.
For years, she has labored over this book, but she has never managed to make it past this scene. For the hundredth time, she regrets how similar she has made the circumstances for this scene to her own life.
Her muse niggles in the corner of her mind, pushing and prodding. The writer studies the page for a few moments more before nodding. Picking up the pen again, she places it to the paper, allowing the colors to surround her as they always do.
For hours into the night, the writer tells a tale of heartbreak and self-discovery.
By the time the golden glow came from her window instead of beside her, the writer has finished drinking her seventh cup of coffee. Hand-written scrawls cover every corner of her desk, extending out onto the walls where she has stapled them up.
Stepping back, the writer finally smiles, recalling the scents and glory of each of her worlds and scenes. After years of writing, she has finished.
She chooses to go back to bed to celebrate.
