For days he punched the keys, swearing in frustration when a paragraph did not hit the perfect note, when his words scorned to weave magic at his bidding. Each time he aimed for the flourish of a full, laden, ripe sentence, the words ground themselves against each other, jarring, proud and unsociable. Sighing, he tried again, and again, and yet again.
Then one day without warning, sentences suddenly synchronized: romance kindled itself gently, words linked arms with other words, suspense breathed sharply down his pages, uncertainty kissed his writing goodbye and lo! a plot emerged.
Fazed, he stared down at the old typewriter, an odd contraption: the corners of some keys cracked, rust embracing its sides. It winked back solemnly at him.
And then on, there was no looking back. Story after story sped out with the haste of a maid sweeping dust under the carpet.
Sometimes though, strangely enough, he thought he missed the struggle: the uncertain, agonizing wait for perfection as each phrase coined itself from the ashes of a dozen failed turns; the sleepless nights of discarding old drafts and nourishing new ones; the deep-felt satisfaction as at long last, one perfect, hard-won sentence revealed itself like a debutante at the ball.