He waits in the dark room. Unseen and unbothered until the morning.

Sometimes he knocks to get out. Sometimes he scratches at the door. Sometimes he beckons you to come in and join him, to sit down for a nice quick chat. Sometimes he whispers in your ear, only to then try to strangle you.

He haunts you throughout the day.

You see him at the window when you’re outside.

You pass him by on the street when you’re driving.

He lurks in the aisles of the store.

He hovers over your child in the family room.

He is there, silent and still, waiting.

Waiting for you to continue.

Waiting for you to finish.

He is your best friend and confidant.

He also wants to squeeze the life out of you.

He wants to be born, to be given life, to be given purpose.

He wants his moment.

Yet he can’t do anything, anything, without you.

He hates you because he needs you.

But he loves you for loving him.

His hands are strong, even if they’re malformed and in need of repair.

They take your hand, walk along the path, gently and patiently.

Sometimes those same hands clasp around your head, pushing in, hoping to gouge out, hoping to hurt and inflict pain.

He is impatient and he silently howls.

You’re the only one who can see him, who can hear him, who can know him.

He is never at rest until he is fully created and let out of the cage.

Then, and only then, is he content.

He will always whisper to you, taunting you that he could and should have been more.

But once he is out and on the shelf, the voices and the shadows go away.

Only to replaced by another.

Only to joined by yet another voice, yet another shadow.

This one more beautiful, more tempting, and more horrific.

This is your life as a novelist.

And these are acquaintances you make along the long, solitary road.