The tall dark man sat hunched over and still. At times he would fidget and move from one position to the next almost non-stop, like a thousand ants had crawled over him. However at this moment he sat very quietly, his head held in one large hand, his long flowing black hair spilling over his face and covering his features. His other hand was quite busy as his long slender fingers twirled a magic wand that he had been holding for some time now.
"Damn!" he said through clenched teeth, and he slammed the wand on the wooden desk in front of him. Blowing a breath of frustration through his thin lips, he straightened up and sat back staring at the useless wand. Why would anyone think there was any magic in this thing? It was hard to understand yet he himself had seen it working, bringing life from places that had none.
But now, nothing. And no matter how hard he tried he could conjur no response from it.
Rising from the chair that held him, he slowly stretched the entire length of his tired body, filling his stiff joints with relief. Thus was the life of a writer. Sometimes there was magic, and sometimes there was none.