A party, a concert, a pub late at night. The writer has been drawn there and is still not sure of her own estate of mind until she sets a foot un the venue. Then it is obvious to her that she doesn’t feel like partying at all, instead she wants to write so much that she doesn’t want to get involved in the picture, beyond being an espectador, and not even that, as the stories she means to write don’t come from the outside.

She takes out the notebook she carries around all the time, ignoring the dismay looks her companions throw at her . She always hopes that some time she will see something that inspires her to write, so other people’s opinions are irrelevant.

The party – or concert or pub – is proving not to be the perfect place for it, still, she perseveres, ignoring all the efforts from her friends of trying to involve her in what’s going on around, them friends trying to make her dance, drunkers bumping into her, the loud music… Despite of all this, the writer feels it is her duty to try and write.

But because she can hardly write one word after another that make sense, the negative thoughts start to be overwhelming.

Perhaps she is not a writer after all. Perhaps she has been trying all those years under some sort of delusion, and all that carrying around notebooks and diaries was just to fool herself and knock off her chances of having a good time.

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