A microfiction that describes the process I went through to write this microfiction. A self-referential piece called:

Writer

—

No words, no words. I have no words to describe it. I just have this burning feeling like I’m wasting time.

It does not seem to care that I’m exhausted. It does not even care that my hands are sore as I write this. My head is dropping in a desperate attempt to sleep. My eyes slip closed with every pulse of my heart. Yet, the hand on my shoulder just squeezes tighter, and I don’t have much of a choice in the matter.

It’s as if every finger-fall is forcing another word out of me. Like a chain of connected, yet impromptu, creation is springing forth from my head. It swirls faster and faster now; a basin spilling over the edge. A caffeine drip directly into my nerves. My back straightens and I lose any sense of tiredness that I had before.

It does not seem to matter to her what time it is, or what I should be doing. Every attempt to think of anything but the words that keep spilling from me makes my stomach tie up in knots. I can’t type–I never learned– but for the moment that doesn’t seem to matter. My fingers know the keys like a child knows its mother’s face.

I can’t stop. My muse has already decided this.

Oh, the glory of the artist, to have no control over when I create.

—

Did you like the article? Dislike? Tell me about it in the comments. I would love to hear your opinions! If interested in specific articles, or want to write as a guest, you can message me at scifibrandonscott@gmail.com. Thanks for reading!