Forgot to put a disclaimer in the last chapter, so here it goes...

Disclaimer: I don't own anything about King Kong. If I did, I wouldn't be writing FANfiction, would I?

Chapter 2: Lost Inspiration

He paused, wracking his head in front of his typewriter. So far he had managed to write approximately two lines in his next act and it didn't seem like he would be able to come up with anything else to write for another hour. He was simply stuck… once more. He took a sip of his now cold coffee, accepting grim defeat. He wouldn't be able to overcome this writer's block, at least not now. And with his director breathing down his neck constantly, it made it harder to work under such tense conditions. He rubbed his temple, sighing as he placed his coffee cup on his desk and stared blankly at the two lines written on paper.

"In need of some inspiration, Jack?"

Jack nearly jumped from his seat as his director, Robert Thompson, made a loud entry into his apartment. He seriously needed to remember to lock that door more often. He leaned back on his chair, his tired eyes landing on Robert. "What are you doing here, Robert?" he asked quietly, though the answer was quite obvious.

"Checking up on my playwright and by God, you sound exhausted, Jack!" He took notice of the extra cups of cold coffee also taking up space on Jack's desk. "You look like a dead man! What a mess… what in the world have you been up to lately?"

Jack smiled in dry humor. "Trying to finish up that next act for you," he stated simply, placing his hands on the back of his head.

Robert strode over to Jack's typewriter, taking a glance at what the playwright had written so far. "Two lines…?" he stammered. "Two lousy lines? Jack, I've had you working on that act for two days now! Surely you could've managed at least a whole page or two by now?"

"Yes I know. Look, I'm sorry, but I just haven't—"

"I don't care if you're feeling stuck right now, Jack, just do what you have to and get the whole damn play written by the end of next week. We can't get the actors to work on any scenes if the freakin' script isn't written yet! And opening night is fast approaching, we've only got two months to prepare until then, and the only written work we have is the first scene! So I suggest you get writing!"

"Done yet?" Jack asked bitterly.

Robert looked on the brink of a nervous breakdown, with his flushed face slowly turning purple. "Look, Jack, I'm doing you a favor here!" he lowered his voice, trying to sound calm. "I know these past few years haven't exactly been easy on you, what with all your plays not doing quite so well… well, to tell the truth, they've been a piece of shit, I don't know what happened to you…"

"Go on…" said Jack, crossing his arms.

"Don't be sarcastic with me, Jack. I know it's getting harder for you to find work with all your plays turning out to be written disasters lately. That's why I'm giving you a chance to write a good play this time, to help bring back your good name! I know you have it in you to write a fantastic play, just like the old ones you used to write, but if you don't put forth your best effort, starting now, then there's nothing more I can do to help you."

"I never asked you to help me."

"Well, aren't I quite the nice fellow?" Robert spat.

Jack looked away in shame, knowing fully well that he was right. The man was giving him a chance, after all, when all other directors had finally turned their attention away from his plays. Robert Thompson was right; his plays were apparently 'written disasters.' They no longer held the brilliance and flair they once had, almost as if all inspiration for writing them was completely gone. As if there were no point to writing anymore… simply for the necessity of earning money in doing something that he could do. They felt so incomplete. A piece was missing. Something in Jack had been lost… and it hadn't just simply been the motivation to do what he had always loved to do. Something more…

The lost look on Jack's face puzzled Robert for a moment. He shrugged it off, however, and straightened himself. "Well! I hope I've managed to knock some sense into you, then. Have that play written for me by the end of the week. No, forget that. I'll be generous and give you a full three weeks to write it! That'll give you time to think up an amazing play for me, eh?" With one last nod, Robert left Jack's apartment, leaving the writer alone to dwell on his thoughts.

It was not that he wasn't aware of what was missing in his plays. He knew what he needed. Who he needed. He was able to write a play, yes… but when she was there, he felt inspired. To think, to give the play more thought, more laughter, more emotion. He had always felt then that she would stay with him, that she would always be by his side, further encouraging him to write more. But he had been wrong. It had not happened like so, and he could not manage to write the great and beautiful plays he could once write. He no longer felt like writing them. The inspiration only a woman could give him was no longer there. And every time he settled down to write, he often asked himself what for?

He glanced at the bookshelf on his far right, his mind pondering on the thin, black box hidden behind the collection of books there. He sighed heavily, closing his eyes, and running his hands through his already disheveled hair. He wondered if she was just as miserable as he was. Or maybe not. After all, it was she who left him. And he couldn't blame her. It had been his fault. He had been a fool. A coward. And he hated himself for it, for losing his chance. For losing her. She was probably doing much better than he was. She was probably married already and had children. The thought of her sharing a life with someone else brought a stab of pain to his heart. She no longer cared for him. Had forgotten him, even. In all these years, he would have thought he'd gotten over her. But it had not been so easy. He was more depressed than he had ever been in his life.

"I need a walk." He forced himself out of his seat and went to get a coat. Fall had arrived and it had begun to get windy outside. He looked at his typewriter as he straightened his coat on himself. He couldn't take it with him, but a pencil and paper, yes. Perhaps writing outside, in the park maybe, would help ease his writer's block of the moment and help him write his play.

AN: Little bit of insight of Jack there. Now that I'm done providing some info on Ann and Jack's current lives, and I can finally get started on the main plot of the story. Note this is my first time doing an actual romance, so I hope I'm portraying (romantic) feelings right and I'm not doing anything wrong. I tend to get mushy and hold back, or want to overdo it, and whatever… anyway, it's my first shot at romance, so be gentle if you review!