It doesn’t work, he said. Too cumbersome. Awkward. The sentence doesn’t roll off the tongue easily. By the time you’re done, you feel as though a mile has been run, almost out of breath, the fat man said to himself.

You must convey a message to the reader; coffee in hand, typewriter in front of him. Pinpoint and precise as possible. Clean. Crystal clear, with each sentence getting to the heart of the matter. That’s what you should do. He pulled the filled page from the machine and threw it away. Far away. Tossing it across the room. A three-pointer missed. He sipped his coffee. Lit a cigarette. And, sat there. Just sat there, wondering how to say it. A simple sentence. A pristine paragraph. He placed another white sheet into the beast.

The fat man stared at the thin paper; examining it up and down, side to side. Imagining words written on it. Not big words, simple,easy for the reader to digest. Another swig of joe. He began typing.

He awoke every morning casting shadows of rabbit ears behind his head upon the wall. Moving side to side and scratching his nose, he said, what’s up doc?

This was now on the page. He felt as though something was accomplished for the day.

Now it was time for toast and honey. Read it over a hundred times. Throw it away and start all over again.