gardens of vextro thing

"So, what's the hiccup this time?"

This was how the fictive bartender of my imagination started his questioning. If I ever found myself hitting a writer's block, I would materialize into this dingy bar in the crooks of my subconscious. The only bar I've ever been was some gay bar in SF, so my current surroundings were a swirling of caricatured images from Hollywood and elsewhere.

I looked around and saw the usual denizens were there: my ex blog post drafts, YouTube playlists that's supposed to inspire me to write more, traumas of writing about LGBTQ+ fiction while living in a homophobic country, stashed away stories of a past that's now alien to me, and the dreams of being accepted as a white mainstream writer. They all looked gloomy as always and would watch me with envy. I could hear them mouth "please", "write", "about", "us".

Eh, maybe next time. If ever.

I turned back to the bartender who, by the way, had the same character portrait as The Silver Case's bartender. I swear, I usually write better when it comes to fiction; I take my time to research and look at photos. But for whatever reason, it's always that dude. I guess it's because his mustache amused me.

Anyway, I shrugged my shoulders and said, "I don't get reviewing."

( Move forward )