Closed In

I

Rob sat at his writing desk, with his laptop in front of him. On it, a blank text document, with not a single word written. Just a cursor, blinking away, ready to move as soon as the first character had been typed. But for the time being, there was nothing but a blinking cursor.

He took another sip of tea, and stared through the rain-covered window. He’d rather not have to worry about this essay, and be outside, out of the house, putting some distance between himself and the laptop — that infernal machine that kept reminding him to write, write, write.

He hadn’t had this problem before — this problem of not being able to put a single word onto the page. The fingers on his keyboard used to have trouble keeping up with the flow of thoughts. Before, the problem he had was keeping the writing focused: without restraint, he’d be able to fill an entire book on even the most trivial subject.

But now, just that blinking cursor.

Rob stood up with a sigh, lifted the teacup off the table and limped to the window. Being crouched over his laptop for so long had caused blood circulation issues in his leg. He stared through the window. The view used to inspire him, watching people and their dogs go about their lives, walking, running, playing, stumbling, hop-skipping. Not so much now: there wasn’t anyone around, and even so, the scaffolding interrupted his field of vision.

Ugh, that ugly, metal scaffolding. It got put in place a while back. It made him feel closed in. The building façade urgently needed maintenance, his landlord had explained. While the work was going on, the noise was agonizing: the machinery noise itself wasn’t great, but the incessant shouting of the construction workers made it impossible for Rob to focus on anything.

There wasn’t anyone around today, though — the bad weather, maybe? This very moment, entirely free of distraction, would be perfect for writing, Rob thought. So why can’t I?

II

The first sign that Rob was on the precipice of giving up was his new Netflix subscription. He binge-watched a handful of series, then moved on to Apple TV+ where he did the same to a few series there.

If I can’t get anything done, I might as well not try, and enjoy myself instead. He certainly picked up living by that. He had stowed away his laptop and practically forgotten about it.

The TV series were certainly entertaining at first, but lost a good chunk of their appeal not long after. He thought he must’ve not found the right series for him yet. He went through everything he’d watched, gave it all an appropriate rating, and soon the algorithm would spit out more recommendations, which he dutifully followed. It got better: the system got to know him and offered some movies and series that he wouldn’t have considered otherwise.

The construction work continued, but the drilling and hammering and shouting blended into the background. Sometimes, Rob would turn up the volume on the TV and that’d be that.

Once in a while, his mind would drift back to the empty page with its blinking cursor. He’d think about what to write, but there consistently would be no answer, and consistently back to the TV he went. The screen for entertainment always provided new stuff, fresh stuff, and never treated him with a menacingly blinking cursor.

III

One morning, Rob woke up to the familiar sound of construction workers, but this time mixed with the distinct noise of metal clanging. He stumbled through his bedroom door, put on the kettle and headed to the bathroom for a shower, intent on figuring out later what the noise was about, or perhaps ignoring it entirely — the latter seemed most appealing.

Fresh and clean, Rob came back to the kitchen and understood the source of the noise: the metal scaffolding was in the process of being taken down. At last! He rejoiced.

With a fresh cup of tea in hand, he stood in front of the window and watched the scaffolding be disassembled, slowly, so slowly, frame by frame, guardrail by guardrail, platform by platform. He found it oddly satisfying to watch, and as he wasn’t in a rush to get anything done, he just stood there, watching with satisfaction.

And then — suddenly — a metaphor. Wrapped in an aphorism. It came into his mind, fully formed. It started growing branches, manifesting itself in a sentence, a paragraph perhaps, vague and shapeless but his mind had already started molding it into something that could fit just perfectly at a blinking cursor.

A writing impulse! Rob had not seen this coming. He grabbed his laptop (it took him a while to find because he had forgotten where he’d put it), plugged in the charger cord (it had almost entirely run out of battery), fired up his word processor, and started typing. Words and sentences and paragraphs and sections and chapters flew across the screen, chasing the cursor non-stop.

It was the scaffolding. He was sure of it. That was the thing that held him back, made him closed in. But he was free now, with an unimpeded view and an unimpeded mind.