Inspiration

 ...so I sit down at my computer, adjust my chair's backrest, sniff out the air currents, assess the background noise: the TV from the next room, the fridge that's kicking in more often than usual, the cat crunching kibble, and my neighbor, who insists on mowing a lawn the size of Tennessee with nothing but a weed whacker.

I can see him sweating, wearing his tank top inside out, with bushy shoulder hair and a half-moon of redness spreading across his back. I pay him no mind.

I readjust the backrest.

To clear my conscience, I check my work email. A disgruntled client's unanswered message could ruin my inspiration, or worse, take their business elsewhere.

Nothing.

Well, not exactly nothing: a couple of petitions, an energy company rep with the world's best rates who just arrived in town, Russian woman seeking Italian husband, some alleged bank that isn't yours advising you to change your password.

The neighbor with his weed whacker must have stopped at the edge of a cotton field somewhere near Kingston Springs and is refilling the gas tank. The cicadas almost resume their song, but the 25cc engine roars back to life on the second pull of the cord.

Facebook notification on my author page.

I minimize the blank page, check it out, and discover I've been added to a group without my knowledge. Meanwhile, the Sardinian girl is showing off her new glasses and an unconventional neckline. I scrutinize the photo looking for a flaw. Disappointed, I postpone the task for another time.

Chapter 1

To avoid reformatting from scratch, I save my last successful novel under a new name, tacking on a string of Xs followed by a (1). I keep the first word and delete the other seventy-two thousand. While doing this, doubt creeps in. I pause to verify I've saved a copy on my computer, one on the external hard drive, one on the triple USB stick, one on the double CD-ROM, and one in the cloud.

I adjust the backrest, satisfied: all copies are accounted for, and I can return to deleting those seventy-two thousand words minus the first one with peace of mind.

Pristine page.

I insert the quotation marks, the accented capital E, and worry about that Scandinavian character I know I'll need sooner or later, the one with the Danish-Norwegian slashed O. Out of laziness, I consider taking some flavor out of the character by calling him Mario, and while I ponder this, the cat jumps on my keyboard and licks my chin with the taste of North Sea herring.

The first word of the novel is his.

I save it, wondering if the word might come in handy someday as the name of a fictional town, perched on a picturesque fjord with a large abandoned hotel on the snowy slopes of the mountain behind the settlement.

Second work break for the neighbor in his lawn, and tenth like for the Sardinian girl with her new glasses.

An email arrives from a colleague with a massive attachment. Thirty years ago, it would have crashed NASA's computers all by itself.

I stretch, rest my eyes by gazing at the blue-hazy horizon and contemplate starting with a dream-like opening, something that might go down in history:

"All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way"

"Call me Ishmael"...

I need to think about this. Like songs that are too perfect, relegating their entire album to being their eternal container (don't believe me? Try naming the other eight tracks from Hotel California...), overly successful opening lines might become self-contained aphorisms. Not everyone is Tolstoy.

I verify that all the location photos are in the folder. They're there, keeping company with the floor plans, maps, notes, the draft I sketched while waiting for that client who was an hour and a half late, and the list of three possible titles.

I stretch again.

The noisy neighbor, the intrusive cat, that other feline glaring resentfully because its bowl is empty in the center (believe it or not, cats judge the amount of food in their bowl by evaluating how many kibbles are grouped in the middle. The others, piled on the sides or scattered about like hand grenade aftermath, leave them completely indifferent).

A WhatsApp notification from three hours ago (I tried to save on the blinking LED and now I look like a jerk once a day) and the washing machine starting its spin cycle. I challenge anyone to remember the maximum spin speed beyond the third day after purchase.

I drink, do some sit-ups, lazily eye the pair of five-pound dumbbells and regret it. The bike has been sitting in the garage for too long to find an excuse that wouldn't make the entire planet laugh. I consider changing my t-shirt. I'm struck by the certainty that tomorrow's breakfast is limited to a couple of somewhat stale rusks, but I abandon the idea of running to the store. Impossible to park. Impossible to reach the checkout without being stuck behind the forward-thinking family with their apocalypse food supply, in quantities sufficient for regular time, overtime, and penalty shots.

I choose a vinyl to put on the turntable. Better said, I review about thirty before realizing I have no clear idea what I want. Italian prog, rock, hard rock, dark, fusion, and blues. I decide to ask YouTube for help.

Meanwhile, the computer has gone into standby mode, and the game is about to start.

Chapter 1, see you tomorrow.