He sat in his favorite chair. I could hear the creaking as he rocked forwards and backwards. I knew he was sitting across the room from me, but he was not there. His eyes were black and round with focus, and his pupils glittering with deep concentration. The creaking of the chair slowed, and soon came to a stop. I knew where he would go next.
Up he ran to his study, pulling out the chair from his desk, and sitting promptly. His eyes were darting, and the thought process overtook him. Quickly his hands moved to the blank paper, his fingers fidgeting for a pencil like a junkie who needed a fix. He took one deep breath to calm himself, to collect his thoughts. His eyes still moving frantically in thought, as his hand flew across the paper, quickly writing one line after the other.
Like an athlete, every muscle was tight, preparing for the long race ahead. The adrenaline was rushing now, and his brain was moving so fast, his hands were flying, consuming the paper like fire. He had to push the muscles in his hands to the limits, to write down all his thoughts, to keep up with his mind. His was a race of time. He had to get the thoughts onto the page before time took them away forever.
With each scribble of the pencil, the characters took shape, names began to form. His round eyes squinted in concentration now. His thoughts rushed out from his mind to the pencil, like electricity on a power line. The characteristics began to form. The words began to blossom from a thought to a person. Would this person be a bully? Would she be a shy girl sitting alone at a table? Would they be an ugly duckling, or a beautiful swan, or maybe just an ordinary guy, turning out to be the hero of the day. Whoever it was, their story would be told now.
I could hear the distinct sound of the pencil, jotting thoughts quickly onto the paper. The room was so silent, and everything about the thought process was in the air. My ears began to pick up the sloshing sound of the eraser, the sound of his hand brushing away the shavings, and the sound of the pencil striking against the page again. It was wonderful music to my ears, such a soothing sound emitting from the magic happening on the page.
A story was beginning to shape, forming a distinct and collective plot from beginning to end. The muscles in his face and body began to relax slightly. His hands began to slow and come to a stop. I could tell he was reading through the page now. His eyes began to widen again. You could see the deep concentration fading away. His eyes were shinning with admiration and love. He looked like a father placing his eyes on his first born child. The corners of his lips were turning upward in satisfaction.
As abruptly and the race had paused, it began again. He swiveled the chair around so quickly my head spun. My ears began to buzz with the music again. These new sounds were different, but every bit as part of the magic emitting from the page. It was the rhythmic sounds of the click, clickity, clack of every key stroke.
The finger tips were finding every key with ease. There were many words, but one story, his fingers fitting them together in one fluid motion. The words were coming out like waves, some quick and powerful; some slow and gentle, but the waters never stopped flowing. His every finger ached to relax, but the adrenaline pumped to push the muscles further and further, to shove the pain away from his mind. He had to finish the race.
The printer started to whirl suddenly, as the fingers came to a stop. He stretched out now, interlocking his strong fingers together, and shoving them outwards. His eyes finally blank, as he rocked his head from side to side. The tension in his neck was finally releasing from his body. His mind was at peace again, and the thought process had stalled for now. He inhaled a deep breath. He did not know when his mind would strike again. He would rest well, if just for tonight, this story was told. This was one story down, with millions more to be discovered, flooding his mind with thoughts once again. This was his life, and he was a writer.