9 Ebrington Road


The writer sat at this desk. New Order serenading his creative process. In front his assembled troops. Trusty notebook, reliable pens, an espresso, chilled water.

He checked his twitter feed, nothing retweeted thus far. Dejected he scribbled onto a post-it note, adhering it onto the screen:


His inner voice whispered. Twitter rejected. Scrivener booted. The black line pulsated, demanding to be driven across whiteness.

A sip of coffee, an intake of breath. His fingers hovered tentatively over keys.

He rearranged his troops once more.

Fingers hovered.

Maybe he should check his email?

Then he would start.



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