Everett Ogden lay in his little bed in room two-oh of the Inn, his pillow clutched to his chest, his eyes fixed on the blurred ceiling above him. His spectacles were neatly folded on the beside table. Everything else in the room was in complete disarray. Papers were strewn all over his desk and in a radius around it on the floor. His few articles of clothing, all of which were presently dirty, were here, there, and everywhere. A few abandoned cups of tea lurked. A half empty bottle of scotch sat on the dresser.
The room looked like the inside of his mind. Everything was there, but it was in disarray. Try as he might, the writer could not sort out the chaos in his mind. He was stuck in act three, and the words that had poured from him for weeks had not only slowed to a trickle, they had come to a screeching halt.
With a heavy sigh, Everett turned to stare without focus out the window. The morning sun was veiled by clouds in the overcast sky, and the pre-spring day was horribly, horribly grey. The man felt despondent. He closed his eyes that he might mope in the darkness of his mind. Everett Ogden: wretched, artless creature.
Eventually, the man had to heed nature's call, so he stood up and with the aide of his cane, he made his way to the bathroom. The writer got a good look at himself in the mirror, then. His hair was a little too long. He needed a shave. His clothes were a mess. He was a mess. I am a mess!
He wasn't a poet. He wasn't a gentleman. He was a mess! The man nearly laughed with the simplicity of the idea. In order for large things to shift, small things must first move. Everett Ogden knew what he must do. He knew that in order to finish his play and continue writing the poetry that he knew could move people, that he needed a muse.
It was early afternoon before everything had been set to right in room two-oh. He'd sent nearly all of his clothes out with a laundress. All of the dishes were sent with housekeeping. Every paper was either placed in a careful pile or discarded. The man himself bathed, shaved, put on the least dirty of the clothes that remained, and headed out into the world to experience the beauty that he needed to drive him to create.
The room looked like the inside of his mind. Everything was there, but it was in disarray. Try as he might, the writer could not sort out the chaos in his mind. He was stuck in act three, and the words that had poured from him for weeks had not only slowed to a trickle, they had come to a screeching halt.
With a heavy sigh, Everett turned to stare without focus out the window. The morning sun was veiled by clouds in the overcast sky, and the pre-spring day was horribly, horribly grey. The man felt despondent. He closed his eyes that he might mope in the darkness of his mind. Everett Ogden: wretched, artless creature.
Eventually, the man had to heed nature's call, so he stood up and with the aide of his cane, he made his way to the bathroom. The writer got a good look at himself in the mirror, then. His hair was a little too long. He needed a shave. His clothes were a mess. He was a mess. I am a mess!
He wasn't a poet. He wasn't a gentleman. He was a mess! The man nearly laughed with the simplicity of the idea. In order for large things to shift, small things must first move. Everett Ogden knew what he must do. He knew that in order to finish his play and continue writing the poetry that he knew could move people, that he needed a muse.
It was early afternoon before everything had been set to right in room two-oh. He'd sent nearly all of his clothes out with a laundress. All of the dishes were sent with housekeeping. Every paper was either placed in a careful pile or discarded. The man himself bathed, shaved, put on the least dirty of the clothes that remained, and headed out into the world to experience the beauty that he needed to drive him to create.