He could not figure out which word to use in specific, is it coiled or recoiled in the corner of the dark house it vigilantly decided to enter?

You see, he was attempting to write a novel. This would be his fifth unsuccessful attempt. His wife, now his ex naturally, always used to tell him that what he lacks was motivation, originality, spontaneity and inspiration. Come to think of it, those, in themselves were a lot to lack. But he decided not to let her words bring him down, even though he had to admit he was indeed trying rather too hard.

Writing is his only chance; the last straw for fixing what years of domestic and marital neglect has forced him to lose. For years after she had left, he immersed himself in ways she would never approve of. He drank rather too much and wrote too little even though thoughts and words would always come hurling at his brain, begging his pen to move, his keyboard to type words of such magnificence, yet his memory always used to fail him. And whatever words still lingering in his mind would be retched and thrown up with vomit and remains of smoke and vodka, leaving a disgusting state of numbness and repulsion to the extent that his pen recoiled to the corners of a dark house it vigilantly decided to enter and his paper, or what is left them would wrinkle as his fingers approach their very thin lining.

He knew he wasn’t the best speaker and sometime he even doubted his skills as a writer. His wife, or ex-wife, used to be his number one critic, maybe even his only. However, do not judge him too hastily, he wasn’t that bad or pathetic. He was merely a selfish possessive writer striving to be arrogant but never daring to show his writings to anyone.

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