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Mr. Crenshaw realized his mind had run dry. He wasn't blocked he was definitely dry. He understood the world of the woman in twenties even though it was never his reality, he could understand her world and thus could write about it.
As he massaged his cramped back he realized he was dancing around an epiphany. Like when you wake up in the morning and you know the feeling of your dream so well but what the dream was is a little hard to remember and then little by little, the dream comes back to you.
Though he understood her world, the want to be in it was decreasing. Sometimes the fantasy is so real to him, his first nature. And little by little as he remembered what his dream was he realised what was first nature to him now. His reality was becoming stronger, it was its time.
As a writer all he really wanted was to have that voice inside him translated as truthfully as possible and that voice keeps changing. The woman in twenties no longer had a place in his heart nor did her world, it all shrank away from him. In its place he could feel his own story filling his heart.
This was the story he now felt compelled to tell people. But not just yet. The characters were filling his heart but they need to reach the point where they burst out and plonk themselves next to him.
Now would come the scene where you see our writer furiously typing away, in the throws of his thoughts, creativity pouring out and music swelling behind. If we all lived with our personal production and background score team, our lives would be pretty much that scene, but we don't have those teams and neither did Crenshaw (he did often daydream this though).
Crenshaw did what all of us would do in that moment, the moment when we had decided this was the night of the all-nighter, then fallen asleep at our desk and given up on the whole stupid mission and gone to bed. He at least had enough sense to write down this new idea for a story on a post it note and then collapsed in his bed. One doesn't begin the post-epiphany day without a good nights sleep, neither did Crenshaw.
Stuck on the keys of his Remington was a blue post it note, which said "Detective Nani and her sleuthy sidekicks"