The wall clock ticked, emphasising the passing of each second he wasn't writing. He sighed. His head rested sideways on his arm, and his arm stretched aimlessly over his desktop. His fingers encountered the mantel on the corner. Lace. Maybe he could write about that. About the white thread intrinsically intertwined in the perpetual dance of… He sighed, train of thought dropped. Not even big words helped him. He let his head fall to the wooden surface. He had no inspiration that evening.
There was nothing to draw inspiration from, anyway.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” They had asked. Yes, he was sure he didn’t want to go to that party. He’d work on his novel—he was on a deadline.
It was always his excuse. He’d write to escape the real world, but he needed to live his real life to find inspiration. Oh, the paradox. He sighed.
He began writing.
The white fibre was whiter than the whitest of whites the hero had ever seen…
The 5 minute freewrite for today's prompt: lace
