Perspective

Daily Prompt | Perspective: Think about something that drives you crazy. Now, think about something that makes you happy. Does it change your perspective?

It was dark and raining. Hector’s door was an awful maroon colour and the buzzer was outrageously ineffective, it made a limp kind of whine. My knuckles were white from pressing so hard. I was standing outside for about 30 minutes trying to find his number on my phone. “Writers”, I mumbled under my breath contemptuously. I was an editor not a bady-sitter, it was two in the morning and I had a lot on the next day.

When I finally got inside Hector was cooking in the kitchen. A vile greasy smoke flooded the hall. The smoke alarm went off just as I passed underneath it – it cut through my sleeping nervous system like a knife. I swear it took two or three years off my life. Hector, was all smiles now after practically crying down the phone. Where do we find these people?

“I’ve fixed it” he said mysteriously. Seeing my face twisting with anger he clarified for me slowly.

“The text. I managed to re-write it. Now it’s okay, life goes on. It’s not the black hole I thought it was. It’s in the study, go and see.”

I stomped through to the study, throwing my coat on to the floor on the way. I didn’t even stop to pick it up.

In the study there were were signs of Hector’s personal struggle: a broken mug, sheets of paper all over the floor, some books lying in a pile where they had been thrown. The text was laid out by the computer, lit by the blue screen. I breathed out through clenched teeth.

It was dark and moonlit, a fine drizzle cast beautiful halos around the street lamps. Hector’s door seemed to hide itself away in the shadows, adding to the romance of going to visit a temperamental writer at this time of day. I pressed the buzzer and it’s eccentric yodelling seemed perfectly suited to the dusky adventure. I looked carefully at my hands. These are hands that now get to make changes to the work of great writers, I told myself. I’m not one to mystify the process of making literature, but here I finally felt I’d got my hands at least dirty with the grease of the literary world. Hector didn’t answer, so I took a moment to meditate on the situation, to take in the almost studio sheen of the cars on the street. Eventually, a little worried about Hector I phoned him and he let me in.

Hector was cooking in the kitchen. It was a welcoming feast for the senses, his warm wood panelled reception and the smell of home cooked food. I tucked myself through the crammed space and through in to the kitchen. Hector was beaming. Before we ate, he wanted me to see the new version of the story he had been working on. He gave a short life affirming speech about the process of writing.

I went in to the study, a typical hide-out for a creative mind in the throws of something difficult, hard to grasp. Stuff littered the entire space. Piles of books, drawings, pens. The text was by the computer which looked almost dormant with it’s blue screen saver; as if it too was exhausted by the creative effort. I picked it up and with glee started to read.

It was dark and raining. Hector’s door was an awful maroon colour and the buzzer was outrageously ineffective, it made a limp kind of whine. My knuckles were white from pressing so hard. I was standing outside for about 30 minutes trying to find his number on my phone. “Writers”, I mumbled under my breath contemptuously. I was an editor not a bady-sitter, it was two in the morning and I had a lot on the next day.

English: Mémoires by Hector Berlioz, a little ...
English: Mémoires by Hector Berlioz, a little eaten by a rodent. Français : Un exemplaire des Mémoires d’Hector Berlioz un peu mangé par un rongeur. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
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