He sat in front of the computer monitor tapping earnestly away at the keyboard. He stopped to sip his drink and to survey what he had written already. He notice a split infinitive and a couple of passive sentences that would need to be rewritten but decided to push on and get his thoughts on the virtual paper his screen offered him.

The television kept him company in the background as his children dreamed, comfortable in their air-conditioned bedrooms. An itch on his forearm distracted him from his thoughts. Scratching without really paying attention he wondered if the words he put down would have the necessary effect. He wondered if the words, like most of his sketches scattered on the floor behind him, would find the recycle bin before anyone could appraise them.

“Probably, “ he mumbled to himself.

Continuing to type, he tried his very best to ignore the rumble in his belly. Noticing his drink was empty, he considered a break to refill and refresh and remembered that his wife had baked chocolate chip cookies that afternoon. Temptation was strong and his willpower was weak when he worked at his computer. Bad habits are the hardest to break.

He rose stiffly from his workstation and wished that he had taken the time stretch after his early evening bike ride. Though he rarely took the time to stretch, he always wished that he did. Promising himself that he would remember after his morning three mile run he climbed the stairs from his basement office and entered the kitchen to find a cookie and refill his drink.

The guitar in the corner of his office beckoned him as he returned and he abandoned the thought continuing to write for awhile. He strummed a few chords to awaken his fingers to the joy of caressing the strings. Choosing a simple three-chord ditty, he sang a bit. He always sang the song when guests would ask him to play something and although he had played it more times than he could remember he never tired of it.

“Three chords and the truth, “ he thought, “That’s all it takes to write a great song.”

He flipped open the plain manila folder that held the music and chord charts to the songs he was trying to memorize. He glanced at a few, and played the opening bars to a few others but didn’t feel particularly inspired to continue any of them. Placing the folder on his guitar case, he pulled out a folder with a torn edge and an Aerosmith sticker on the front. This folder was special; it held the songs he had written himself.

The song was on top. Written years ago, the song was a gift he had never summoned the courage to give. Now it was just a sad memory in a beat up folder. He sang the song. As he sang he could almost smell the stale beer in the college apartment where he wrote it. Thinking back on those carefree summer days, he marvelled at what had become of the last 20 years.

Letting the final strains of the song fade into the summer night, he put his guitar away. After saving his work still glowing on the monitor on his desk, he climbed the stairs again. Finding the lights all turned off he gazed out and up through the kitchen window. Stars blanketed the night sky. The clear night sky always made him feel small.

He turned away from the window and made his way to the bedroom. It was time for sleep. He had to run in the morning.