Writer’s Lament

The typewriter clacked away in the dimly lit apartment. Tom’s fingers flew over the keys, each stroke a mix of desperation and resolve. The paper held his thoughts, a messy testament to his passion.

Outside, the city buzzed with a life he rarely indulged in. The clamor of the streets seeped through the thin walls, a constant reminder of the world beyond his words.

Tom paused, taking a swig from the half-empty bottle of bourbon next to him. The liquid burned its way down, offering a brief respite from the gnawing doubt that plagued him. He stared at the latest paragraph, wondering if anyone would ever read it, let alone understand it.

“Why do I even bother?” he muttered, the room swallowing his words.

He looked around at the cluttered space, the unwashed dishes, the pile of rejected manuscripts. It was a writer’s den and a cell of his own making.

The door creaked open, and in walked Mary, his wife. “Still at it, huh?”

“Yeah,” Tom replied, not looking up. “Just trying to make sense of it all.”

Mary leaned back, her eyes scanning the room. “You know, not many people read anymore. They swipe, scroll, click, but they don’t read.”

Tom smirked, a bitter twist of his lips. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

She reached behind her and pulled out a dog-eared paperback, tossing it on the table. “Maybe you should try something different. This guy wrote like he didn’t care if anyone read it. He wrote because he had to.”

Tom picked up the book, flipping through the pages. “Hmm. Never pegged you for the type.”

Mary shrugged. “There’s a lot you still don’t know about me. Anyway, I thought it might inspire you.”

Tom sighed, putting the book down. “Inspiration ain’t the problem. It’s the goddamn audience. They’re all too busy with their screens to bother with words.”

“Maybe you need to write for yourself, not for them,” Mary suggested. “Forget about who’s reading. Just write.”

Tom considered her words, the weight of them pressing down on him. He knew she was right.

He had been chasing an elusive audience, trying to fit into a mold that no longer existed. Maybe it was time to break free.

He took another swig of bourbon, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. “You might be onto something,” he admitted. “Maybe it’s time to stop caring and just…write.”

Mary smiled, a rare sight that lit up the dingy room. “There you go. Now, get back to it. Write like nobody’s reading.”

Tom nodded, his fingers finding their rhythm on the keys again. The words flowed, unfiltered and raw.

He wasn’t writing for the readers; he was writing for himself. And for the first time in a long while, it felt right.

The night wore on as Tom found his groove, a fragile peace in the chaos. He didn’t know if anyone would ever read his words, but that didn’t matter anymore.

He wrote because he had to because it was the only way he knew how to make sense of the world. In a small, cluttered apartment, a writer’s lament turned into a celebration of the written word, a rebellion against the digital age.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.