The writer's fuel

The walls of my den seem closer in tonight. I swirl the amber liquid in my glass. How long have I been in here? All night it seems. I look down at the typewriter; a few sentences written, nothing substantial. The dim light shines off the bottle on the side table. Wasn’t there was more left? I think. These long nights really do me in. I hear steps behind me. “Writer’s block, honey?” my wife asks.

“How could you tell?” I ask, giving her a slight smile as I turn in my chair.

“Well, for one, the whiskey’s almost gone,” she replies, smiling back. “I thought that was fuel for you writers?” she questions.

“Maybe for Joyce and them,” I say, holding the bottle in my hand, the glass heavy and cool in my hands. “But for me, apparently whiskey is nothing more than an escape.”

“An escape?” she questions, her tone becoming more serious. “What are you escaping from, Walter?”

I give a heavy sigh. “Myself mostly; my thoughts, my fears that my writing will never be what it was, that the well I drew from so many times has dried up.”

She walks over and puts her arms around me in an attempt to be comforting, but I find it agitating, and I shrug her off. Whiskey is my only comfort tonight, and so I pour another glass.

She shakes off my cold demeanor. “You’re a fantastic writer, Walter, ever since I've known you. Remember those nights where we would lie in bed, and you would read to me, read your stories and poems? I know how well you can write.”

I lean back in my chair and I remember back to those days she mentioned. Things were different back then. The writing was different, my outlook was different, and our relationship was different. “But what if I can’t get back to that? What if that’s gone forever?” I ask, superficially about my writing, but implying things much deeper.

She looks at me for a moment, looking as though she’s trying to read the thoughts behind my eyes. “It’s late; why don’t you come to bed?”

“I can’t, I can’t leave without writing something worth keeping on the page.”

She seems disheartened by my answer. “Well, write about something you know; you always said that helped you get through writer’s block.”

“Yeah, I’ll try that, thanks honey,” I reply, giving her a hollow smile.

She walks up to bed, and I position myself in my chair. I finish the remainder of my glass, and I unscrew the bottle. I take sizable swig of the writer’s fuel. Write about something I know, I think. I look at what’s prevalent, pressing in my life, and my fingers move to the typewriter and hammer out a sentence.

He no longer loved her.

I look at my sentence, and I sob. I grab the writer’s fuel, and I escape