Finding Your Spark: an Inspirational Story, by Matt Sterling

          My name is Matt Sterling, and I’m a horror writer. For the older readers among you, you might recognize the name. I had a brief moment, when my book, “Cries for Laughter,” was released in 2005. Since then I’ve been in and out of the spotlight as a teller of short stories. I’ve written a few good ones, I’ve written a lot of bad ones.
        I got a lot of attention for the bad ones. I think that says more about you than it does about me. Yet it all just felt so meaningless, because I just couldn’t find that spark.
       If you’re a writer yourself, you understand what I mean by the spark. That spark you get when the idea clicks just right into your mind, and you know it’s going to be a good one. That moment in Room 217, where you can see ” The Shining,” in full picture, and you hear the click as the idea forms wholly inside your mind. That’s the spark, and I had lost it.
       I’m no Stephen King of course, but that’s hardly the point. The stories just didn’t grab me anymore. I felt nothing more than the stroke of the pen, or the click of the keys. My writing had become lifeless, and soulless, and I couldn’t figure out why.
       When you search online you get the same advice from everyone. Change your location, change your writing habits, get rid of distractions, and all of that is fine. It works, I started writing, but the writing wasn’t the issue. It was the substance. The writing was hollow, and no matter what I tried it stayed hollow. That was until I met Mira.
        I’ll admit, I got a little depressed. I felt like I had lost my touch. I used to be this award-winning writer, but now look at me. Sitting in isolation, wracking my brain for a single inkling of inspiration. My friends invited me out every week and I always declined, but eventually I couldn’t decline anymore. Social pressure can be a pain.
         It was a dinner for my friend Dave’s birthday. The restaurant was nice, but I won’t bore you with the details of Dave’s party. The only important part of that night was Mira. I saw her from across the entire restaurant, and stunning was too mild a word for her. It was the kind of beauty you could only read about in fantasy novels.
          An Elven Queen perhaps, or a Fae princess. Either way, she walked over and the room vibrated with her presence. She spoke to us, and I was struck with confusion.
           She was the waitress, but that just couldn’t be. How could she be serving the likes of me and my compatriots? She was a Goddess amongst mortals, it seemed wrong to accept her service. It would make a good story though. And there it was… a spark.
             I left quickly, mumbling some excuse about God knows what. I had the spark finally. I felt whole again, I felt complete, I felt my soul returning to my fingertips, and I knew I had to strike fast. Everyone knows a spark isn’t enough to start a fire. You have to fan the flames, and that’s what I intended to do.
           I plopped down heavily behind my desk, laptop already open to a blank page, and I started typing. My fingers danced in delight, as for the first time in years I felt the joy that made me start writing in the first place.  I frantically typed sentence after sentence, trying to keep the blaze alight.
           With every clack of the keys I felt it fade. The fire grew dimmer and dimmer, until it was gone. I had lost it again. The spark was gone. Everything I had written was nonsense. What a waste. I pressed heavily on the backspace, until I was met with a blank page once again.
           The next day, as I stared intently at the page, willing it to come to life on its own, I came to a realization. I knew where my spark was. It was with Mira.
          I decided to go back to the restaurant, but this time I had a plan. I would write down all of my ideas while I was there, that way I could never lose them. It seemed foolproof at the time, but looking back it might have been quite foolish. Not knowing that at the time though, I went to the restaurant.
          She wasn’t my waitress a second time, and I was fine with that. Who was I to make Aphrodite a victim to my whim? Instead I was intent to just watch. I watched her blonde hair cascade around her shoulders, her pale skin looked almost fragile to the touch, contrastingly her green eyes were sharp, deadly.
           I wrote it all down on my phone, as much as I could at least. As I was writing though, I realized that my phone had a camera. I could probably get a picture. I quickly fired off a shot, hoping nobody noticed. I wasn’t even sure if she was in the picture at that moment, but a few dirty looks were being thrown my way so it was time for me to leave.
           A story began to form in my mind, and I felt the excitement build as I raced home. I ran inside, and plopped down once more. Once I was situated, I checked my phone, and there she was. Even as bad as my phone was, she seemed to shine through it. She enhanced the quality of the photo, just by being in it. It was amazing. It was inspiring.
          Words began to flow quickly from under my fingertips. Loose sentences gave way to better, tighter paragraphs, and a spark became a blazing inferno. I had something,I finally had something and I was not letting go.
          Gleefully I wrote until the earliest hours of the morning, filling page after page with glorious sentiments.  The ecstasy I felt was unmatched. It had to have been upwards of ten years since I felt this way, and I had forgotten how good it felt.
             I fell asleep on my keyboard that night, my dreams filled with words and phrases so poetic, they bring tears to my eyes even now. I finally got it back. The spark.
       I woke up with a smile on my face. I erased the damage my face had done to my manuscript, before continuing from where I left off.
         I felt the moment my soul began to drain through my fingers. The spark died again, and I was left in darkness. I looked at the picture, but it was dimmer than usual. It didn’t ignite the spark like it usually did. It wasn’t good enough. I looked at my unfinished manuscript in disgust.
       I had been so close. The words on the page felt so dull. They taunted me with their emptiness, daring me to find meaning, but I just couldn’t. They were meaningless. With a heavy heart I felt the backspace key under my finger again. The page emptied and my thoughts cleared, and I knew what had to be done.
         I went back to the restaurant. It was getting late, so there were a few people here and there but overall not many people around. Which was good for me.
           Side note: You can  make your own Chloroform. I’m not going to tell you how, but you could look it up if you want to. Another side note: It doesn’t quite work the way I thought it would.
             She struggled against me as I held the rag to her face. It didn’t knock her out the way it should have,but she began to struggle less so I opted to shove the rag in her mouth as a gag before throwing her in the back seat of my car.
          I drove quickly away, before pulling into a backlot. In the cover of darkness I got some rope and tied her hands and feet. She tried to fight it, but the chloroform had made her weaker I guess. I’m still not sure how chloroform works.
            Having her in my home felt like an abomination. How could such a filthy, vile abode, contain an angel such as herself? I propped her up in a chair. I needed to see her.
             I felt the energy well up, as life returned to my hands, and began to flow into the keys. With every keystroke, a burst of energy rattled my bones. The room glowed in the presence of the goddess, and that energy flowed through me onto the page.
             I finally had it. I finally had her. My spark.
            And I am never letting go