The Wall

Andy’s staring at the screen again. The analytics. A flat line. It looks like the heart rate of a man who’s been dead since the mid-nineties.

—Nothing, he mutters.

He looks at his manuscript. Thousands of words. A mountain of words. And for what? He could have spent that time learning to play the guitar or getting out taking photographs. Something, anything more useful. 

He heads downstairs. Mary’s there, reading something on her phone.

—I’m done, he says.

—Done with what?

—The writing. The blog. The novel. The whole bloody deal. Nobody’s reading, love. It’s like shouting into a skip.

She doesn’t look up.

—Did you enjoy writing that bit about the Phantom called Dennis?

—Yeah, but—

—And the bit about the green alien hands?

—Well, yeah.

—Then keep going.

—But the stats—

—What are you on about, then? 

He blinks. Goes to speak. But nothing comes out. He tries again, but still nothing. 

—You’re a writer she says, finally looking at him.

—You’ve always been a writer. You happened to get a job in IT to pay for the biscuits. If you stop writing, you’ll be a grumpy dev lead with a twitchy hand. And nobody wants that in the house.

He stands there. The logic is annoying. But annoying because he knows it is true. 

—Brew? he asks.

—Go on then.

He goes back into the kitchen. He looks at his hands. Still a bit of green under the fingernails from Sunday. He thinks about the “Return of the J-Cloth.” He chuckles.

He’s not writing for the bots. He’s not even writing for the Kagi rebels. He’s writing so he doesn’t become the “clumsy walrus” with nothing to say.

He goes back up to his office. Opens the blog.

The Empire Strikes a Match. 

—Right then, Dennis, he says to the empty room. 

—What have you got for me today?