{"sf1_id":699236,"sf2_id":null,"title":"The Writer's Curse","author":"Losstride","words":963,"posted_at":"2014-04-30T09:58:00.000Z","tags":["Experimental","No-Yiff","Philosophy","Psychological","Wolf","dire wolf","parody"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/699236-the-writer-s-curse","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/view/699236","image_url":"https://www.sofurryfiles.com/std/thumb?page=699236\u0026ext=.jpg","description":"","content":"The\nWriter's CurseThe\nblinking line on the screen flickered on and off in a steady rhythm.\nHe had timed it. It blinked once per second in perfect sync with his\nsystem clock. He began to suspect that it was actually programmed to\ndo that, but he would ask his friend to check the scripting at a\nlater date. The writer had work to do for now. Well, he kept telling\nhimself that his meaningless typing on the keyboard was work, but all\nit did was function as a glorified hobby. His stories had made people\nhappy, satisfied his cravings, and even earned him a few favors...\nbut they would never pay the bills. A black claw tapped rather hard\non the edge of the laptop before being followed with an angry grunt.\nLack of recognition and material gain was the main reason why he\nusually did not want to write. \"Nah, that's what the art whores are\nfor. Look at us! We'll charge you based on our popularity and not our\nskill! All you watchers and subscribers are addicted to instant\ngratification from a sexy image! Pay us rather than a writer who\npaints with words instead of a four hundred dollar tablet!\", he\nsaid in a cruel and mocking tone. A little voice of reason in his\nhead immediately rebutted him. \"That's not fair and you know it.\nMany of them genuinely work hard doing something they love.\nSketching, writing, origami, sculpting, music, dancing... They are\nall art forms. The only difference is the medium.\"\n\n\n\nThe\nwriter shook his head with a sigh. He could not let himself fall back\ninto those bitter cycles of jealousy, depression, and underhanded\nfame grabs. No, he needed to legitimately climb his way to the top,\nand use any petty obstacles as stepping stones to get there. He just\nneeded that one breakout hit. All he needed was a single amazing\nattention grabber. After that, the drive to write more after seeing\nthe public's reaction would surely increase. If things went well\nenough, then he may even write enough to get something printed. After\nthat, glorious profits! He actually had to start writing at some\npoint or another, though. His grey eyes once again fell onto the\nblinking line waiting on his screen. It would mark his progress on\nthe page.\n\n\n\n\"I\nneed a story. A story does not need characters. A story does not need\ndialogue. A story does not need a tone. A story does not need\nprogression. A story does need a setting. A story does need imagery.\"\nThe list of minimal and optional inclusions in a piece rolled through\nhis mind. Black-furred ears twitched in anticipation. He proceeded to\ntype up an opening line as ideas flowed from his brain, into his\nfingers, into the keys, and onto the screen.\n\n\n\n\"Once\nupon a time...\" He backspaced with a self-mocking laugh. He could\nnot really begin like that, could he? Flow of consciousness was\nrarely a successful writing method, and it certainly was not looking\ngood if his first few words were the classic fairy tale opening. No,\nthere would be some planning required.\n\n\n\n\n\"Two\nlovers. One is a fairly normal person, while the other is outwardly\nmean but secretly cares... Wait. No. That's been done. It's been done\nso often that the Japanese have a term for it.\" A heartbroken sigh\nescaped from between his lips. He did have new ideas, but they were\ntied up in a different story that he could not bring himself to\ncontinue at this point in his life. Lyrics from a song he had not\nheard in a rather long time flowed through his head. \"Rah rah rah!\nThere's nothing new...under the sun....\" A toothy grin covered the\nfuzzy face. The song was referring to sexual acts, but it fit every\nother aspect of humanity's thoughts just as well.\n\n\n\n\"There\nare new things. We just need to consider them. The future. One\nthousand years from now, the galaxy is threatened by a mysterious\nsubstance that absorbs and imitates organic matt- oh, wait. Mister\nCarpenter would sue me if I wrote that.\" The sharpened claw tapped\nat the corner of the keyboard again. This was the second reason why\nhe did not want to write. New ideas were difficult. He had created\nsome before, but he felt as if he had expended his lifetime quota on\na different project.\n\n\n\n\"The\nlast dragon on- No. The first sentient creature ever opened its\ncompound eyes to see- I am not making a new genesis story. Too\npretentious. Can I parody something?\" He ran through more potential\nplots. Almost everything that he believed that he could write well\nhad already been written by someone else before he was even born.\nEven if he was the universe's greatest writer, he could not go back\nin time to be the first to do something. He briefly entertained odd\nnotions of writing a story about someone inventing a time machine so\nthat they could do just that, but then remembered that someone had\nalready written that story, as well. \"Well... drat.\"\n\n\n\nThat\nis when he realized something. \"Greatest...better... I do not have\nto be creative and make something entirely new... I just have to be\nable to do it much better than it was done before!\" His heart\nskipped a few beats. This revelation brought new hope to him. On some\nlevel it was deliciously twisted. He had to overcome the stigma of\nwriting something that was unoriginal, but was so masterfully created\nthat nobody would care about the original any longer. It was a\nchallenge, and one that he would love to rise to. He had a goal now,\neven if it was a horrifically misguided one. The writer began to\ntype...\n\n"}