Title –This Is My Life
Rating -K
Disclaimer -All components of Alan Wake belong to Remedy and Microsoft.
A/N –I decided to do a small fic on Alan Wake to help with my horrible bout of not writing anything. Ironically enough, I had the idea to write about Alan's creative block. I think that Alan Wake can be a very selfish man at times, and as you'll see in this fic he acts so. If it's a bit rushed, I'm sorry. The story kind of wrote itself [corny, I know, but true].
"Alan, stop stalling and start writing! I can hear you flicking that thing on and off in there, so don't try to fool me by saying you're working. Departure, you were going to call your new book, weren't you?"
Alice's playful voice carried its way across the hall and into my ears. We always kept the doors open in the apartment if we were in separate rooms, so that we could talk to each other whilst working. I grinned slightly. Even in a different room she could hear the quiet sound of me turning the flashlight on and off incessantly. It was a habit of mine when I was thinking of what to write, or when I was idle and bored, to grab the flashlight from my top drawer and fiddle with it. I delved into this habit so often that I always made sure to keep spare batteries in the drawer with the torch, just in case anything were to happen to plunge the apartment into complete darkness.
"Yeah, it was. And it still is! I just need a starting point, and I'll be off. And I'm not stalling, just… biding my time," I yelled back down the hallway. I heard Alice laugh softly, and I placed the flashlight down on the desk, determined not to play around with it any longer.
I was in my study, my place of sanctuary. Here was where I performed; in here, I was centre stage, doing what I loved best. Placing not just words onto paper, but my imagination, my soul was set loose creating new worlds and stories to tell. I didn't much care for the fame or the money; over eager fans just raised my frustration levels. Simply being able to find solace in spinning new plot points into the old, and seeing a newly finished novel that had been my sole creation bound and on the bookshelf was plenty for me.
Working to deadlines agitated me. How could people expect a writer to create a masterpiece within a set time? Writing was meant to be free of obstructions, free of expectations. However, the fans and media were hungry for my new novel, and the more it was publicized the more people wanted it finished and ready to read. I'd outlined the plot and the characters to a near perfection. And now I was ready and willing to bring it all to life.
Problem was, I'd been stuck in my study for four days without typing a single letter. I'd made the torch eat its way through six batteries already. The blank white sheet of paper that was standing in the typewriter was just that; blank. The typewriter seemed to be mocking me; the piece of paper challenging. When the background hum of the busy traffic below and general life in the apartment became silence, when dawn turned into dusk and that piece of paper was still white, still blank, I felt infuriated. Infuriated that my mind seemed unable to comprehend a single sentence that was worthy of typing out.
I point-blank refused to believe that I had a case of writer's block. That couldn't happen to someone like me. Writing was my life.
Or was it?
Shouldn't my life be Alice? I loved her like nothing I had never known before; I'd dedicated my life to her when I'd uttered those religious vows years ago. She'd been my muse as soon as I'd laid eyes on her.
Maybe that was why I couldn't write. I'd been so absorbed in my work that I didn't even want to think about 'wasting' my time with the person I loved. She'd helped me to write whole novels, but now I couldn't even start a sentence. I'd avoided her, willing instead to be sat in my study, staring at a blank page like it was the only thing that kept me awake. And yet she'd still be cheerful when I did talk to her. Those rare nights spent lying next to her in our double bed opposed to slumped over the desk on my own were quiet, but peacefully so. She held nothing against me, and it made me feel guilty.
I got up, pushing the chair away with the back of my legs and ripping the white piece of paper from the typewriter. I let it float to the floor and purposefully stood on it as I walked into the corridor. I needed to make it up with Alice, even if she didn't think I'd done any wrong. I needed to forget writing for the moment; and spend time with my muse.
"Alice? Where are you?" I said, peering into the small room where she developed her pictures. She was a superb photographer, and I'd never known her to even touch a bout of creative block. A fleeting moment of envy passed through me, although it passed without a moment's notice. I hastily decided to ignore it. Jealously was not something I needed right now.
"Alice?" I raised my voice slightly, but stopped dead when I reached the living room. Alice had fallen asleep on the sofa. The TV was still on, but it was hard to hear. I smiled to myself, stepping quietly around to the back of the sofa and staring at Alice. She looked so happy, so blissful. I realised with a stab of guilt that I hadn't looked at her for longer than this for a while; I'd forgotten just how beautiful she was.
I reached out to stroke her cheek, but stopped abruptly. Jealously hit me again, although with much more staggering force. She was asleep, yet I had become an insomniac since my last book had been published - over a year ago now. The times that I did fall asleep I always woke up sweating and panting, trying to force out the latest nightmare that had weaved its way into my head.
And yet there she was, sleeping soundly and without the fear of nightmares. I couldn't apologise to her, and now I realised that I didn't want to. How could she keep living life with that stupid, reassuring smile when she knew full well what I had been going through? She hadn't bothered to help, to try to make me feel better in any way.
I stormed my way back to my study and slammed the door shut, turning off the light. I picked up the piece of paper and caressed back the creases I'd made. Placing it back in the typewriter, I pulled the chair back to the desk and assumed the all too familiar position of sitting, hands out and ready to type. All too familiar, and all too comforting.
This was my life.