The writer was struggling with his story.
It happened sometimes. He had the idea in his head and had made notes, but it was in the ‘putting it together’ that was giving him trouble. His stories were only ever short, just two or three hundred words most of the time. He would post them on his blog each week knowing that there were readers out there somewhere, visiting his site and reading them. Sometimes he would get comments about them and he was always interested to see where in the world they came from. In a way, it was times like this that he felt he would be letting these unknown visitors down if he couldn’t actually complete and provide any particular story. Logically speaking, this was a complete nonsense, of course. He knew that.
There was a place where such unfinished drafts of stories would go to die. A sort of graveyard, you could say. It was a folder on his laptop that was dedicated to drafts that were, and most times, never finished.
For him, this was the case today. He would give the electronic file a special notation in its title and consign it to the nether regions of his laptop.
There was always something sad about this; sad for the writer. A sadness that only the writer would ever feel.
Nobody would ever read his story because he couldn’t write it…
It was very humbling.