It was a dark and stormy night when she heard the crash coming from the seaside-facing office. She hurried down the hall.
“Everything okay in there?” She peered around the door to find him at his desk—his face buried in his hands, his old Underwood pushed off to one side. Instead of answering, he gestured at the overflowing trashcan in the corner.
She walked over and discovered the shattered bottle of Dewars. In his agony, he must’ve thrown it, but it had bounced off the mountain of crumpled Eaton’s Corrasable bond that filled the bin.
At last he spoke. “It’s all so cliché. Every single word I put to the page. Try to understand, Barbara.”
It was the whole reason they’d driven the Roadmaster out to Point Sur–to clear his block.
She went to him and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, dear. What is it they say? ‘Write what you know’ or some such.”
He let out a bitter chuckle and reached to roll a fresh slice of paper into the typewriter. “Very well then.” He mashed the keys one by one and began again:
It was a dark and stormy night.