The writer sat and stared at the blank screen. He wanted to write something but wasn’t quite sure where to start. He turned and saw a queue forming to his right. They were rather somber looking men, all with grim faces that spoke to the weariness they faced daily.
The first one did not wait to be addressed but started speaking as soon as he was noticed. “You cannot do it. You have been a failure all week, and thus failure is your lot in life.”
He walked away and the second grim man approached. “Nobody reads your nonsense. What you write is insignificant. Not even your wife reads your words.” He left.
The third man approached and said, “It has all been said, so why bother saying it? Anything you write is just a derivation of that of a greater person. You have no respect for what is important.”
The fourth man pushed the third out of the way and said, “Aren’t there more important things you should do, like doing something to support your family? Your art and commentary are just noise, like a person howling at a wall or a painter scribbling black on black.”
The fifth man waited his turn and said, “So many people try, but most fail – why do you think you will be any different?”
The last man looked the most grave, as though he had come to deliver news of a death overseas. He looked at the writer and said, “You can choose to push forward despite the risk of failure or you can choose to languish in your inaction, thinking of every reason why you do not make the next move while around you there be those with far larger obstacles that overcome them and thrive. Who are you going to be today?” He stood over the writer and peered at his blank screen. “At the end of the day, this screen can be full of the words you write, or it can still be blank. It’s entirely up to you.”
The writer began to type, and the last of the muses parted.