# Writer's morning

Олег Мушинский

Перевел на английский язык мой рассказик "Утро графомана"

Это мой первый опыт перевода "туда" и замечания по делу очень приветствуются.

Writer's morning


A morning. I am going out on the balcony. It is not that I would really want to. It is chilly there! But I am going to write a story about a morning and I need an inspiration. I have to go for the truth of the life, taking risk to catch a cold.

So, morning. I am on the balcony. Sunrise. I am sure, that is am amazing scene, but I can't see it. It is hidden by the house in front of me.

I am looking around courtyard and melancholy is arising within me. Two shabby cats can't to sharing something in dump. Three pigeons are splashing in a pool behind the dump. Well, that is something. I am taking out my notebook and gnawed pencil from pocket of pants. Yesterday I gnawed the pencil by one-third. I wanted to gnaw the half of the pencil for the truth of the life, but its lead has a very disgusting taste. So, I have taken out my tools from my pants and starting to write: "The sea. Sea is calm, and there are gulls. Gulls are screaming, they herald the coming storm". I am listening to. Damn them! They are silent.

Well, let them go to hell. I am focusing on cats. One cat has ran away, another one is eating something. I am writing: "A terrible monster were fumbling his victim on seaside". Wow, that's horrible! I am feeling the cold on my skin. Oh, no, this is wind. Today is really chilly... So, the monster. Where is it running, monster?! Why am I always plague with bad luck?! Stupid cat, why do you need this lady-cat? Now is not a season for kittens. You won't have anything, but I have to write my story.

My cat has run away. And the lady-cat too. Oh, it is my eternal bad luck. No, this is conspiracy! The conspiracy against me and France! Stop. What does France here? And, it seems, somebody has written it already, but I don't remember who was it.

So, it is hard for us, modern writers. Many things are said before us. By the way, I have many glorious ideas too. But ancient authors have staked out all of them. As a result, they rest on laurels and I am freezing on balcony. Why? Just because of, for example, Virgil was born earlier than me. By the way, he was older than me, when he wrote his creations. But history gave him an advantage, and for me not. If we were born around the same time, I was would look, who would become an unrecognized genius!

Well, I am making a deep breath, calm down and sneeze. Last is not on Indian technique, it is improvisation. So, conspiracy. Conspiracy of sinister galaxy Empire against great Russian writer. And who is great writer now? Nothing? Well, I have to write from the first person. So, it will be even somehow unexpected. Well, I decided with my main hero. Now Empire.

A garbage truck makes a circle in the courtyard and stops against dump. Sinister-looking driver (he will a spy from Halley's comet in my story) makes something, that I don't see, and mechanic paw begin to overturn garbage cans in car bodywork. I am writing: "gloomy technocratic kingdom".

This is about the Empire. This Empire hate me. Why, by the way? Maybe, I have a mystic power, which does not give rest the Emperor himself. Oh no, this is something familiar again. Always like this, I publish my idea and next appears that another author has catch this earlier than me. Come on! The plebs eat it. By the way, about plebs. Sorry, about my readers. I should be add half-naked girl. Readers like that. I look around the empty courtyard. No one suitable candidate. Maybe it's too early, maybe October morning frost has frightened all girls. Oh, girls! What, do I need to compose all by myself?

Oh, my God, all by myself, all by myself! Inspiration don't come to me, but the cold nearby. I should have worn a jacket. I look around courtyard last time. The courtyard is covered yellow-red leaves and there are a lot of leaves on the trees. Yellow, red, even green. The most advanced tree is naked. Oh, yes, it dried in spring. It should have been cut down then and I would write something touching about native nature. But now is not the season. Oh, I haven't inspiration now. Such throes of creation and all in vain. Maybe, is magnetic storm today.

What's a pity! I feel like I could write a good story. But so... What the morning - such the story.