(no subject)

[devin_capshaw]

Devin stood outside the door of his motel room, contemplating the diamond-shaped key tag in his hand. Attached to it was, predictably, a key, the room number etched into the brown plastic. He didn't smoke, but sometimes he liked to stand outside and think about taking up the habit.

Inside the room was uncertainty. Namely, uncertainty in the form of an electric typewriter, a notebook, and a red pen. Red was such an angry color, especially when used to point out flaws. Searching for the precise, right word that would turn a sentence into a revelation. The precise, right novel that would turn a paycheck into a pay load.

He wondered exactly when he had become so greedy. Having spent most of his life thinking he wasn't much good at anything, discovering writing had made him elated. But that high quickly passed, and the next one was finishing his first book.

Then it had been published, and Devin had a big party. He gave copies of the manuscript as Christmas gifts, and in an attempt to make fun of himself, had autographed them. In red pen. The advance allowed him to purchase a brand new car, a jewel-toned Honda Civic CRX.

Human nature made Devin embarrassed, especially when he fell prey to it. He was always wanting more, the next goal, the big accomplishment. At the same time, he dreaded it, because if he got everything he ever dreamed of, what else was left? Didn't sharks keep swimming or else they'd die?

Still, it wasn't as if he was out of ideas. Every shadow was an idea. He took childhood fears and elaborated on them. It wasn't a stretch for him to fantasize about the inevitable movie adaptation. Could he be faulted for doing more fantasizing than writing?

He took one final, long gaze at the moon as dark clouds descended on it, his version of a final drag, then went back inside.