The writer sat in front of his laptop, staring at the screen. He had been staring at it all day long, just like he had been the previous day. The page count on his book didn't look very different from the previous day.
Technology had transformed the lowly workhorse typewriter into the gleaming sleek laptop. But while the typewriter's sole purpose was to type, the laptop performed many functions, and hence offered many distractions to its user. The writer had spent the last couple of days, as he had many other days, enjoying the many amusements the laptop had to offer him. As a result, his work on his book had suffered immensely. And now the weekend was over and spent and wasted.
The writer attempted to paint a cliched portrait of a man deep in thought, of a man on the verge of producing some of the most brilliant creative work ever witnessed in humankind or the man's mind. He poured himself a glass of whisky and took a swig. It tasted brilliant in his mouth as it slid smoothly down his throat. Then he lit a cigarette and took a drag. The combination felt fabulous. And then he looked at the laptop screen again.
He stared. Then he stared some more. Then he rested his cigarette in the ashtray and pounded on the keyboard for a few seconds. He stopped, took another drag and read what he had just written. He deleted all of it. Then he pounded some more, intermittently dragging on his cigarette. He hated what he was writing, but he wrote it anyway. At least it was content, it provided some semblance of progress.
The writer wrote till eternity with no one to read his writings.