Archive of Our Own

Adronitis

A heart so damaged; tender; sore—
   Through hunger pangs; my deliriousness,
   You ever-blooming sycamore,
   I mourn my mortal catoptric tristesse.

With starving dreams, your warmth I crave—
   I worship you, I must embrave,
   Indulge me, lay your fear ahind.
   Our sanctuary; your piece of mind.

My amorous famine demands more […more what?],
   So I feast on your smile […] petrichor.
i am just writing this right niw so it
looks lije i am being pro ductive oh Yoba

andnow leahs comin g over this
is alll shit im jist going to star t overrr

“How’s the writing going, El’?” Leah peers down at Elliot with a smile, wiping the sweat from her brow. “We’ve been at it for a while without a break, you know?”

“Oh, Leah! It’s going splendidly, and yes, it seems we have…” Elliot coughs, avoiding eye contact while tearing the paper from his typewriter. “Why don’t we call it for today then?”

“Without showing me what you’ve done? C’mon,” she whines, “What do you have?”

Elliot and Leah had decided, sometime early last Spring, to meet in Cindersnap forest every Wednesday to work on their current projects. ‘Parallel play for artists,’ Penny once called it when walking Jas back to Marnie’s ranch. For Leah, this weekly rendezvous has (so far) allowed her to complete 2 clay sculptures, 3 wood sculptures, 23 drawings, and 8 paintings; for Elliot, the last few months has allowed him to create…

“Nothing,” Elliot sighs, packing his typewriter’s case with a frown. “I have, somehow, written nothing! I mean, I wanted to craft a Petrarchan sonnet, inspired by Poe’s romantic, yet macabre sensibilities. I ended up with trash I couldn’t even make hendecasyllabic. It’s embarrassingly Shakespearian and—”

“Whoa, whoa, buddy, that’s okay. That’s fine. I’m not sure what any of that means, but…” Leah scrunches her freckled nose, hoping to find the right words to calm Elliot down, “It seems like you’re expecting perfection from a first draft. Maybe we should call it for today, and you could revisit your poem tomorrow?”

“Yes, you are right,” the authors scowl softens; after a moment of meditation—feeling the summer breeze tangle in his hair—he looks towards Leah with a smile. “I will see you next week, Miss Faraday.”

Elliot didn’t return to his typewriter until later that week, deciding instead to bask in the sun’s warmth on the beach. The author sits on the pier with a contented sigh, the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shore providing a soothing backdrop to his afternoon reverie.

Even still, despite the Elysium that he has found himself in, Elliot cannot shake his frustrations; his linguistic discouragement plagued his every thought.

“Ahoy there, my boy! Perfect weather for fishing don’t ya reckon?” Willy smiles, closing the front door to the Fish Shop behind him. Elliot

“Ah, hello Mr. Tucker,” Elliot waves as the fisherman sits beside him, attaching a small blue tackle onto an impressively shiny rod, “I suppose it is, although I fear I don’t have my fishing gear with me today.”

“What’d I tell you about calling me that? No need to be so formal, son,” Willy chuckles, casting a line into the vast depths of the saltwater, “Say, aren’t ya usually off in town around this time? Feel like I never see you this early on a Wednesday.”

Elliot still had to adjust to the predictive routine of a small town, and the horrifying consequences of straying from said routine: becoming the topic of mid-afternoon gossip.

“Yes, well, I um—,” Elliot sighs, looking into the deep blue below as if the ocean concealed the antidote to writers block, “I have been, writing with Leah every Wednesday and… actually can I ask for some advice?”

“O’ Course ya can, my boy.” Willy nods.

“I have been… struggling lately,” The taller man slumps as he runs a hand through his auburn hair, his voice heavy with uncertainty, “I feel as if I have lost my spark, my… capacité artistique. I cannot, for the life of me, write anything of quality! I just… I feel broken, Mr. William.”

Willy takes a moment to think, slowly breathing in the salty air, “Hmm, I see your problem, lad— but it’s important to know yer not broken. Aye, nothin’ about ya is broken.”

A fish tugs at Willy’s fishing line: desperately; hopelessly.

“It’s like if yer pal Willy couldn’t fish anymore… I’d sooner swallow a sea urchin than lose my ability to do what I love,” Willy pulls the rod towards him, putting up a fight with whatever poor creature is on the other end of the line, “but sometimes it’s tricky doing what ya love 24/7, son! You got to remind yerself to take breaks, and…”

The creature is hurled out of the ocean, flapping helplessly as the fisherman releases it from his tackle. Willy holds the freshly-caught octopus up to Elliot.

“Remind yerself why ya love it!”

Willy chuckles, before mumbling to himself about throwing his newest catch in a tank lest he ‘gets inked’.

As Elliot sits in contemplative silence, the ocean offering solace: the rushing winds, the distant cry of seagulls, even the smell of salty air. Over the last year and a half, he has grown to love it all.

As he rises to his feet, Elliot considers his friends’ advice. He certainly didn’t want to remain in this slump forever; so he needs to find a reminder of why he loves writing; a source of reinvigorating inspiration.

He needs to find a muse.

A muse in a village with a population of 27.

‘Well,’ Elliot thinks, slamming his cabin’s door shut behind him as he slides onto his desk chair. He sets up his Olympia SM 9 for the second time today. ‘If I can’t find my muse in life, I will simply create my muse in art.’

For a moment, the black page loaded into the typewriter stares back at Elliot, mockingly. Then, as suddenly as the crash of thunder that bellows from above, the author began to write.

Elliot bursts into the Fish Shop, his manuscript clutched tightly in hand, a triumphant gleam in his eye. “Willy, my friend, you’re incredible!” he cheered, his excitement palpable. “I truly could not have done this without your support.”

Willy grins, offering a sincere thumbs-up. “Glad to hear it, lad! So what was your reminder, eh? What got you back on track?”

Elliot coughs, a flush creeping up his freckled cheeks. “Well, you see… I made it up.”

Willy arches an eyebrow, bemused,“Ya made up yer reminder for why you love writing? Now, son…”

“No, no,” Elliot hastens to explain, “My love for writing is genuine. But my muse, my darling muse, is not.”

“I’m not following, my boy.”

“I spent all night crafting the narrative of a completely fabricated person, it’s all here,” Elliot elaborates, “They’re genuinely kind, talented and hard-working, despite never being appreciated. They have the most charming mole on their neck, and they’re delightfully witty! After their grandfather passed away, they—”

“Son,” Willy interrupted gently, his tone tinged with amusement, “Yer a peculiar one, ya know that? How is this going to help with yer writing?”

“It does sound ridiculous, but dedicating my sonnets to this idealised character… thinking of them as I work on my novel… It has been phenomenally motivating!” Elliot laughs, re-reading through the pages before stopping in his tracks, “Oh, I do apologise old friend, I barged into your shop like a man possessed.”

It had been months since Elliot had felt such a fervent desire to write; his unbridled excitement was contagious; a smirk spreads across Willy’s face, crinkling the corners of his dark green eyes.

“If it were anyone else instead of you, I’d be furious, lad,” Willy chuckles, reaching into his mini fridge, “‘Ere, I whipped up too many crab cakes last night, and I know they’re yer favourite— consider it a gift.”

As Elliot arrives back at his cabin, writing snacks in tow, the muffled playing of his piano greets him. He chuckles softly, before preparing to shoo Harvey out of his home so he could resume his day of writing.

“Sincerest apologies, I—,”

“Oh! Honey, you’re back so soon.” Turning away from the piano, your eyes catch Elliot’s with a familiar warmth. You admire the way your boyfriend’s hair always forms delicate waves when exposed to the sea spray.

The author was struck speechless, his heart pounding as he stared at you with more focus than you have ever been subject to.

This could not be real. And yet there you are. You. The muse Elliot had crafted— who's entire life was written mere hours prior on the pages that were now strewn about the floor— was standing before him in flesh and blood.

Every flawless detail exactly as he had imagined.

“Elliot, darling, are you okay?” Your smile becomes wry; nervous as to why your lover was acting so peculiar, his pale skin was now a ghastly white. “Would you like me to pour some wine? We can—”

Before your suggestion was made, Elliot was gone; the door slamming shut behind him.