The Unclever Writer

I’d like to say a word on behalf of gray afternoons, when the writer is not clever.  Sternly outwitted by the traps she’s set for her wretched characters, she longs for interruption.  If only the piano tuner would come today and work his way painfully up the octaves, half-note by half-note, straining for the right pitch.  If only the washing machine would stop and mandate the moving of clothes from one hole to another.  If only a nice cup of tea would appear on the edge of the table and ask to be drunk.

But no, the uninterrupted, unclever writer stays on her couch and prods back into the morass.  Her character glares at her, arms crossed, churlish.  You again?  What are you doing here?  Think you can push me around, do you?

The writer pushes, uncleverly.  She must.