The doctors tell me that if I’m very, very lucky, I’ve got maybe seven more years to live. The disease I have is fatal but it progresses slowly. I decided that, with my remaining time, I’ll do some writing. I bought this seven year pen which, they claim, will keep writing with the ink inside for seven years.
It’s the last pen I’ll ever need.
When you have nothing but time—no future, no long-term obligations—you’d be surprised how easy writing becomes. The empty page holds no terror.
I’m working on three novels simultaneously. When I become bored with one, I work on the others. Keeps me busy. I don’t know how long these novels will be, but with seven years of ink and seven years of life, I should be able to finish all of them. The whole thing.
Except.
A week ago, I dropped the pen and it rolled under the couch. I reached under but I couldn’t get it. Then I got down onto the floor and kicked it through to the other side. Ever since, the pen skips.
That really annoyed me and kind of disrupted my writing routine. The novels are still coming along, but I’m a little worried.
The pen doesn’t feel right and I’m getting these chest pains.