The Sixth One - The Imagined Writer.

Writing seems like an romantic thing to do. When I was a kid and I imagined a writer, I pictured a handsome person, in a cozy New York apartment. The writer would sit on a big loafer chair with arm rests, and opens a new silver MacBook Air, with a fresh glass of red wine. He would be comferably dressed in a large woolen grey sweater and have glasses to make him look studious. And when he wrote, its perfect - sparks fly, magic happens, and words come out beautifully.
And now that I am attemping to be a writer, I dont think it is anything like that. I am in my sweatpants from six years ago, that probably have more holes than a par 3 golf course. I have a mug with two-day old coffee, and a neighbour that keeps peeping into my window from across the alley. My desk is so cluttered I can barley find a spot big enough to support my computer, which has one of the dirtest screens I have ever seen. And when I try to write, the key that I press the most is the backspace key. There are no sparks, there is no magic. But I keep typing, in hopes that something will come, that I will barf out a bunch of words onto the screeen that I can re-arrange and make into something worthy.
For some reason, I can't stop writing. I said I would write, but I didn't say that it would be any good.