needed to be reflected on paper somehow. – Well, it can’t be that I’m so mediocre! In any case, there will be someone who will like my boring book. Even if someone says that she is boring, I deliberately intend her to be boring. What’s important here is the story, not the events that happen in that story. Maybe my hero will spend the entire book sitting at the computer, what now? Such a book, such an idea, such a plan that the main character will spend the entire book in the apartment writing a book. It will just be a boring book about a writer.
Peter drank all the coffee that was in the mug in one gulp and, getting up from the computer, went to the kitchen to pour another one.
Going out into the corridor, he noticed Motya, who was lying on the bench. He remembered that his mother asked him to take a walk with her.
– Later. – Peter said quietly and walked into the kitchen.
Turning on the electric kettle, he poured coffee and sugar into a mug, took milk out of the refrigerator, and sat down at the table, waiting for the water in the kettle to boil.
Peter was thinking about the book. He was trying to come up with a plot for the third chapter. The idea came on its own, and unexpectedly. He simply decided to describe his day, just one day in his life. Write about how he drinks coffee, how he walks the dog, how he washes his face in the morning. After all, it was his book, and he could write whatever he wanted in it. Yes, he took a risk, because publishers love books in series. They love books that have an exciting plot, and the plot of his book was as boring as his every day.
The water in the kettle boiled. Peter rose from his chair, took the kettle, and poured hot water over the coffee. Having thoroughly stirred the coffee and sugar, he added milk to the mug. Having put the milk in the refrigerator, he took a mug of coffee and went back to the computer, promising Mota that he would go for a walk with her later.
Sitting down at the computer, Peter put the mug next to the monitor and, pulling the keyboard towards him, began to write. He started in the morning. I just remembered one day from my life, took some fragments from it, and began to write it down. Words began to appear on the monitor. One, two, a whole sentence, and then a whole paragraph, and now the first page is finished. It seemed that inspiration had found the writer, but, alas, after five hundred words, everything stopped. Peter re-read the text. It seems that he wrote everything he wanted, but at the same time, there was too little written. Only five hundred words, but the chapter needed at least two thousand.
All thoughts disappeared.
Opening the browser, Peter entered his social network page. There were no new messages, but in the news everything was the same as a month ago.
– What to write about anyway? – thought Peter, staring at the monitor. – Although, why am I, I can just take ideas from my life, take any ideas. And even more, I can invent things that are not in my life. For example, I can come up with a friend for the main character with whom he will go to drink beer. Or he will go to a restaurant to eat a hamburger. I can write anything. The main thing is that the events do not contradict themselves, and that it is not boring. But, stop, I’m writing a boring book, then I can write about boring, hackneyed, annoying things.
The door of the room opened. Peter looked down and saw Motya, who entered the room and sat down next to the computer chair.
– Okay, now let’s go for a walk. – said Peter.
Turning on the music, he got up from the computer and began to get dressed. He put on his pants, changed into his t-shirt, put on his shirt, then put on his sneakers. Approaching the window, he stuck out his hand to see if it was warm outside. It was warm outside, and what’s more, the sun was shining there. And without even putting your hand out of the window, you could understand that it was warm there.
Turning off the computer, Peter put a harness on Motya, attached a leash to it and, taking his smartphone and keys, went outside. Leaving the apartment, he closed the door. Motya started barking. Her barking echoed through the entrance, causing Peter to almost tremble. This was one of the characteristics of his dog; she always barked terribly when she went out for a walk.
Leaving the entrance, Peter headed to the park, which was located a hundred meters from the scrap. You just had to cross two roads. Motya ran ahead, stopping near every bush and sniffing it.
An expensive car drove into the yard. Peter looked at him longingly, he wanted to have the same one, but he didn’t even have money to go to the movies. But he was not upset, because he was writing a book, and he believed that when he wrote it, he would definitely sell it in large quantities.
Having let the car pass, Peter walked further towards the park. He crossed the first road, taking Motya on a short leash, and then walked along the lawn, about a hundred meters, and crossed the second road, the traffic on which was more intense than on the first. Immediately behind the road there was a park with a large pond and many apple trees. The park also had an asphalt road, round in shape, the size of the entire park. You could often see girls and boys going out there to run a couple of laps. This day was no exception. Several girls were running along the road, with toned figures, wearing tight pants and T-shirts.
Peter sighed heavily, staring at them.
– I wish I could meet at least one of them. – he thought, looking at their slender waists and rounded hips.
Motya pulled him to the side, along the path. Peter followed her, leaving the running girls behind. He left the main road and followed the path behind Motya, which continued to pull him forward.
– Every moment of this can be taken into a book. – Peter thought. – Absolutely everyone. You can take into the book all these people, all these paths, and even all these apple trees that grow around. But will this be of interest to anyone? This is a classic. Just life, without exaggeration, without a sharp plot, without lyrics and fantasy. A true classic. What if I really can become a classic?
Peter’s chest filled with air. He was so inspired by his thoughts that his condition could be compared to schizophrenia, because now he imagines himself to be an outstanding classicist, capable of writing a novel no worse than those of the most outstanding classics of the world. He was ready to return home and create, write, fill pages with text, create new events, new moments, new thoughts. But first, it was necessary to walk at least one lap around the park so that Motya could do all her business.
A warm light wind was blowing. The sun was hot. Girls were running along the asphalt road, children were rollerblading and riding bicycles, and people with dogs were walking along the lawns. Peter walked along the path, not far from the roadway, completely immersed in thoughts about his book. Although most of his thoughts were still not about the book, but about how much he could earn from it. Million? Or maybe two? What if the book sells a million copies, and from each copy he receives fifty rubles? Fifty million? Peter’s heart began to beat faster.
– This is a game with fate, a game with luck. After all, no one can say for sure whether my book will be popular or how many copies will be sold. – Peter thought. – It’s like playing roulette. I ’m writing a book, and I’m setting it free to float, and then, depending on your luck. It happens that people find treasures, or win the lottery. Yes, it’s like winning the lottery. I’m writing a book and starting my lottery game. Whether I will be able to promote my book among thousands of other books, and whether people will buy it, no one knows.
A girl rode past Peter on a bicycle. Peter stared after her. Her figure drove him crazy. He really wanted to catch up with her, and get to know her, start a relationship with her, take her to the movies, and then to a restaurant, and then marry her, have children, and what not flashed through Peter’s head as he looked after the charming of a girl who rode past him on a bicycle. But he could not do this, because he had no money. Anger at the whole world awakened in him.
– Why me? There are so many people around, and everyone has cars, money, relationships. Do I have anything? Why am I worse than others? – he turned it over in his head,