He sat and stared at the typewriter, his clothing disheveled, his beard unshaven, and his breath stale with booze.
The page reflected his blank stare back at him. He hadn’t written a word in weeks. He’d missed several deadlines. His editor was on the phone daily, and growing irate, about his lack of pages.
He reached for the bottle, but found it empty.
He tossed the bottle aside with irritation. He felt betrayed by his liquid muse, which had of late abandoned him.
With a sigh he sank deeper into the chair. Head in hands, he wondered what to do.