November 23rd, 1952, 9:47 pm.
Delia sat down on the cold, metal folding chair in her tiny, dark apartment, realizing that it was the first time she had sat down since that morning. She untied the stained apron that was a part of the uniform she wore at the diner and tossed it towards the corner of the room, where her tabby cat was sleeping. The long day at work had weighed heavily on her feet, but not on her heart. She clicked on a small lamp, brushed a strand of raven black hair out of her hazel eyes and looked to her most prized possession: Inspiration.
At least that was what she called it; her typewriter. Delia placed her fingers on the keys and began to breathe out the words that had been running around in her mind all day. She began to craft the story that had been on her heart for weeks. She painted the picture that was in her very soul.
Click, clack, click, clack, she continued. The words flowed out of her, emptying her mind and filling her heart with joy. She typed so quickly that she didn’t even need to think at all anymore. Words just flowed out of her fingertips. She couldn’t stop it, nor did she want to.
The clock tower in the town square chimed midnight. She had finished. Pulling the papers out of the typewriter, she wondered how such simple black lines on the white paper could create emotion.
Delia walked over to the corner of the room with a pencil and paper in hand and sat beside her cat. She stroked the soft, orange fur of the animal, and read her work of art aloud. She read and read, stopping every few sentences to cross out a word and replace it with another.
The sky outside was beginning to turn a pale grey. She had finished, at least for now. She crawled under her thin, rough sheets and pulled them up to her chin. It was 3 am. She knew she could only get two hours of sleep that night, since she had to be at work by 5:30. Somehow that didn’t matter.
Delia smiled as sleep came over her, waiting for something. What was it called? Oh, yes: inspiration.