Dialogue

"I'm having a little problem with incentive." Dirk nodded at the stripper with the blond hooker wig finishing her set, handed her a single, and continued. "I mean, inspiration is all fine and good, but it's not enough."
"How so, my friend?"
"Well, I've been trying to figure out what to write . . ."
"Write or don't write, there is no try," Trasker interrupted. He lifted up an empty Heineken bottle and motioned to the waitress for a refill.
". . . Whatever, and so I've been paying attention to images that come through my head, memories, smells, anything that evokes a strong emotional resonance."
"You should be paying attention to Cindi up there, that should be evoking some sort of resonance."
"Eh, she doesn't look like a Cindi. Bit too ethnic for my taste. Anyway, so yeah, I got these images, solitary figures in long halls or wide open spaces, nights on highways lit by orange sodium lamps, which would be great if I were a cinematographer."
"Well, what's the problem. Sounds like you have a decent springboard to write something."
"The problem is that those solitary figures aren't doing anything, except maybe thinking. And thinking alone does not a story make. Oh fuck, I knew at some point they'd play Nine Inch Nail's 'Closer' here, it's like a strip club law or something."
"At least they haven't played any Motley Crew yet. Anyway, what's wrong with people thinking? You're not writing a screenplay so you don't have to worry about 120 minutes of some guy in deep contemplation. Fuck, it's prose, right? I mean the difference is that not only can you get into a person's head, it's one of the main reasons to read fiction. Hell, Proust wrote a ten novel series about some dude's wicked flashback from the taste of lemon cake. And the guy was a pussyhound to boot."
"Really?"
"Fuck if I know."
"I dunno, I just can't bring myself to write whole paragraphs describing the way dust motes drift in sunlight or some shit like that. That's what I mean when I say I have a problem with incentive."
"But at least you'd have something written, mon frere."
"Well, you might be right about having something written. Jeezus, I wonder if she's able to crack walnuts with a pair like those?"
The waitress picked up the empty bottle from the table and handed Trasker his beer. "Thanks doll, keep the change. To Proust the Pussyhound!"
"Here here! Oh fuck, you spoke too soon about Motley Crew."