He pushed back his chair, removed his spectacles, turned his neck in the two possible directions, yawned and got back to staring at the screen.
Lines of his new book were right there in front of his eyes, but he couldn't decide on the ending. He's been writing it for quite sometime now, weaving new incidents into the same plot, new characters entering and exiting his story every now and then. But the ending had always remained elusive. At times he even had nightmares about not being able to finish his book for the want of a proper ending. However, he could never think of a proper ending.
He wanted it to have a dashing end which wasn't predictable. But as they put it, he was scared of making it "predictably unpredictable". So he wrote on... every evening saw him insert new people into the story and every afternoon saw him taking them out in the light of some newly thought ending. But the quest for a better end wasn't quenched. He continued writing.Mixing his emotions with those of his characters. Giving them names, traits, failures and successes out of his own life. Living many lives through them.
But this is not what he always wanted to do, how long could he keep trying to find a new ending? It was time he went ahead and lived at least one life of his own. Not the imagined lives of his characters who could walk, run, laugh, cry and strike out in anger. But he wasn't interested.
As he pushed away from the table with the three plastic fingers of his left hand and balanced the wheel chair with the remaining ones on the right, he looked out at the tinge of red covering the horizon. The story had ended long back. The sun had set. All that remained was the path ahead... the lonely path ahead. He wasn't strong enough to make the journey on his wheelchair and he wasn't weak enough to give up all he had in form of his book, his characters, his plot, his life. Turning his wheelchair back, he started typing frantically.
There has to be a better ending...
Lines of his new book were right there in front of his eyes, but he couldn't decide on the ending. He's been writing it for quite sometime now, weaving new incidents into the same plot, new characters entering and exiting his story every now and then. But the ending had always remained elusive. At times he even had nightmares about not being able to finish his book for the want of a proper ending. However, he could never think of a proper ending.
He wanted it to have a dashing end which wasn't predictable. But as they put it, he was scared of making it "predictably unpredictable". So he wrote on... every evening saw him insert new people into the story and every afternoon saw him taking them out in the light of some newly thought ending. But the quest for a better end wasn't quenched. He continued writing.Mixing his emotions with those of his characters. Giving them names, traits, failures and successes out of his own life. Living many lives through them.
But this is not what he always wanted to do, how long could he keep trying to find a new ending? It was time he went ahead and lived at least one life of his own. Not the imagined lives of his characters who could walk, run, laugh, cry and strike out in anger. But he wasn't interested.
As he pushed away from the table with the three plastic fingers of his left hand and balanced the wheel chair with the remaining ones on the right, he looked out at the tinge of red covering the horizon. The story had ended long back. The sun had set. All that remained was the path ahead... the lonely path ahead. He wasn't strong enough to make the journey on his wheelchair and he wasn't weak enough to give up all he had in form of his book, his characters, his plot, his life. Turning his wheelchair back, he started typing frantically.
There has to be a better ending...
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