Thank You for Your Story Submission But...

Prompt: Your character is waiting or yearning for someone or something.

Thank You for Your Story Submission But…

“It was the worst of times. It was the best of times.” “You plagiaristic fool! I can’t use that! Dickens would roll over in his grave.”

There have been many starts and restarts. Hours have turned into days. Weeks have melded into months. Seasons have come and gone marking the year. Even so I continue to sit at my writing desk mesmerized by an empty computer screen. I try to commend, to cajole and even to chide myself into a story. But I will never concede. Quitting is not an option. Another series of prompts have dropped. I must do it. Writing is in my blood, although much of it has been spilt onto my rejected works. I search for a transfusion of a new plasma life force.

Yet, I have nothing.

I hear the ticking sounds of an old-fashioned clock on my wall. It stings my ears. The slow-moving arms of the clock mock me. Outside the window, the day is bright with the sun casting a searing warmth on the desk and chair. Its heat glues me into my chair. I fear if I move from the desk, the sun’s rays will incinerate me like an electrified insect zapper.

I again stare upon the phosphorescent screen hoping words will drift upon the page to yield a narrative full of adventure and excitement. I tell myself the obvious.

“My mind is blocked. It’s worse than the naval blockade at the Strait of Hormuz. Nothing comes in and nothing goes out.”

I weary of the same drab story lines I end up writing. So many submissions of my writing prowess have been ignored and rejected in the past by judges, editors and sadly other common writers. Perhaps the ultimate frustration is the silence I "hear" from everyone. I think I scare them to death by my writings. Perhaps, they wonder about their own future. They say to themselves (hence the silence) this guy is an author who is destined to be an abysmal failure. Or is there a physiological reason why my writing is invisible? Might I be suffering from malnourishment, or hormonal fluctuations, or from just plain linguistical stupidity?

I will address the malnourishment theory. I do eat sparingly, because I end up draining the resources at the local food pantry by my frequent visits. I will not comment on the other two. Even to a hobbyist or an occasional author, my writing lacks luster, pizzazz and drama. It no longer has become a funny, quirky enterprise. The desire to write like a Pulitzer author has metamorphosized into an obsession of great magnitude. I suspect that the inability to be a successful writer will be the death of me yet and any additional readers who venture into my domain.

Oh, how I yearn for one good story to write! Not just any good story, but one that titillates, awes, and surprises the reader. I need such a story to captivate the reader holding them hostage between the lines of the pages. The story must envelope the reader’s very existence. There must be an element of complete surprise, and I do not mean falling down a rabbit hole that stops at a dead end. Sort of Alice in Wonderland?

I want my story to inspire the hope of rescue like the Titanic. I want it to follow the blustery winds of romance and the longing heart like Wuthering Heights. I want to create an epic story like Odysseus in Homer’s the Iliad and Odessey. I want, I want, but I do not get. Or, better yet, I fail, I fail and fail some more. Shakespeare said it best when Ophelia said, “Woe is me. To have seen what I have seen, see what I see.” Which in all honesty is too much of nothing for me on my paper or my screen. Mr. T. (from the A-team series) said “Pity is the fool who thinks he can write.” Actually, he never said it, but I thought it might be appropriate here.

I want some advice. But everyone who offers advice wants something for it! There is no such thing as a “free lunch.” To your face they tout, “For just a little stipend, we can offer big results. Trust me!” I can see those experts twiddling their fingers like Mr. Scrooge in Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. Not so fast you evil Ebeneezer’s! These thoughts were making me feel very perturbed.

In my outrage, I abruptly stood up. I looked into my mirror on the wall seeing if it would grant me wishes (like in Grimm’s Cinderella) but then I noticed my face was turning a baby blue. I thought I looked like Edward, the Blue Train from the Thomas and friends’ children ‘s book series.

Gee, I was really feeling sick now. The falsehoods from the experts’ words made me exceptionally nauseous. I looked frazzled like I put my finger into an electrical outlet. Hair was standing on its end. I was ashen; I was death warmed over. It was imperative I seek out medical attention.

So, I went to my doctor to see if there was a medical remedy for “writer’s block.” I hoped he would look in his Journal of the American Medical Association (aka JAMA) to pinpoint the disease and offer an antidote, vaccine, massage therapy or cure. Really anything would help, even if had to go on a kale diet. I mean anything. He gave me the evil eye saying “Go see a therapist, a psychiatrist or a fortune teller, but please don’t waste my time. Please pay on your way out.”

I pleaded with him, “Doc, there are others like me out there who need help. There is a silent epidemic of people who are inflicted with this horrible malady. Good people. Some whose careers are ruined by this infliction.”

In one final parting blow, the doc condescendingly said, “You mean afflicted and affliction. You really do need help, but not mine. Now, please pay on your way out.”

I had a renewed sense of despair. “Geesh. Medical professionals are a sensitive lot. Maybe I should take his advice. Heck, it cost me $300 for an office visit that insurance won’t cover.”

I had to do so more thinking on this. I shuddered when I plopped in front of my computer screen. I am a visible wreck. My nerves are bundled tighter than a husk on an ear of corn. I remembered some advice from writing experts who suggested just start typing some words. Type things familiar to oneself. Just start typing. Ok, this seemed to make sense. I wondered why I had not done this before. I made preparations for a long night. I put on some comfortable pajamas and slippers in case I fell asleep at my desk. I grabbed an energy drink. The old wall clock read 11:00pm. A few sips and the frenzy of tapping keys was deafening. It continued on for ten minutes and then I stopped.

This is what I had typed in those ten minutes:

“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” …

For ten minutes this line is repeated. Why would I even think of this line from James Howells, Proverbs? Maybe I needed to scare myself silly into a story fantasizing about the psychotic dude played by Jack Nicholson in “The Shining”? It didn’t work. The energy drink flowed through me, and I had to take a badly needed bathroom break. I did not have to go far. My toilet was adjacent to my writing desk. I live in a single room efficiency apartment. The layout easily explained one of the apartment’s descriptors: efficiency.

Back to the grind of my writing. I was feeling smooth as silk thanks to the caffeine of the energy drink. I opened my window. I smelled donuts. Oh, I was lifted to a newly heavenly plane of existence. The sweet, deep-fried, aroma permeated my room, my nostrils and deep into my belly (if odors can go into a belly). I checked my emergency cash jar. I had a few dollars left. I scrambled down the fire escape in my pajamas over to the donut shop.

The door sign said “closed.”

In my pajamas I cried “Stella! Stella!” I was drunk with rage much like Stanley from Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire. Had I not caught a hold of my senses, I would have carried off the baker to my kitchenette to make donuts.

Sullenly, I went up the stairs back into my apartment. I cried profusely. The wall clock said 3:00am. The baker was baking his wares early into the morning. He continued to entice me with his intoxicating smells. I just had to eat something. I opened the refrigerator door. There was no food except two energy drinks. I did what anyone not in their right mind would do. I drank them.

My computer screen was now blank. I had earlier deleted my ten-minute tirade. As I stared again at the screen, it assumed the colors of the rainbow. The edges of the monitor became wavy. I was mesmerized. I was high on the energy drinks. I saw “words” floating in the air like butterflies. It seemed like I could write about anything, about anyone, about clowns (I fear clowns: coulrophobia) and about the depths of the universe itself.

You, the reader, might be asking yourself this boy is defeated and now he is resorting to escapism. You have your nerve! Careful! At this stage I might animate a fist to reach out of this page and punch you in the nose. But you would be right in thinking this. Writing is really about escapism. If not, then you might as well be a boring, mundane journalist.

It would only be a matter of time before I would crash from the excessive caffeine, sugar, B vitamins, taurine and the bubbly carbonation. My nemesis, the old wall clock, taunted me. It now read 5:00am. I would be lying if I said I was exhausted. I was so hyped I cleaned my one room unit three times. Even the old heater radiator pipes shined. Everything smelled lemony fresh. However, the computer screen laid dormant. Not a blip of a word.

I still had nothing.

The airplane of my brain was heading for the runway. I had to prepare for a landing. I opened up my sofa bed and crashed landed into a mattress and pillow void of any sheets. I am not exactly sure how long before the emergency chute deployed but I did feel the sun's rays laughing at me through the window again. I was fried from the energy drinks and the sun now wanted to bake me as I lay on the sofa bed. The clock laughingly ticked 8:00am. It was Friday morning; the day submissions were due for the critics. I had only a hand full of hours before the really big contest would be closed. The horror of it all.

I had nothing.

Apprehension and the fear of acquiescence gripped my gut. Some of it was due to the overstimulation of the energy drinks and my lack of sustenance. I tried slow, repetitive breathing. I feared my creative powers had flushed from me after my last energy drink.

Of all things I dropped my wireless mouse under the desk. I got down on all fours but in doing so I hit my head on the leg of the desk. I heard a “boink” and then I saw a myriad of stars.

Eureka! I had an idea! I have something! I’ll write about the heavens. Maybe it will be about a galaxy adventure, or a spaceship dropping into a black hole, or astronauts being stranded on the moon. I’ll start it like this:

“Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy…”

No sooner had I typed those words my throbbing head slumped on the keyboard. Just at the moment before I lost consciousness, I heard a booming voice say to me “You can’t use that opening line. It’s from Hitchhikers Guide…” Then I was out cold.

Whether it was my vivid imagination or actually the voice of God, I heard the voice in my dreams say. “You have my words. Write about Me, God Almighty, the Author of Life. You know my book, the Bible, which has had the most copies of any book ever sold! Use my words to enhance your stories.

Remember, my word is a lamp unto your feet. (1) For truly my words are not false; One who is perfect in knowledge is with you.” (2)

Then the Lord put forth His hand and touched my mouth, and the Lord said to me: “Behold, I have put My words in your mouth.” (3)

He continued to speak in my dream saying, “Incline your ear and hear the words of the wise, and apply your heart to my knowledge; For it is a pleasant thing if you keep them within you; Let them all be fixed upon your lips, so that your trust may be in the Lord; I have instructed you today, even you.” (4)

I was still dreaming when a deluge of water dumped over me. The apartment above me had burst a pipe. From the looks of it, I certainly was baptized with a ton of water. Was this God’s way of reminding me that I am His child?

Now I know my destiny is to see the face of God in everything I write. My purpose is to look for His face in everyday people and everyday situations. Why? Because He is omnipresent (ubiquitous), omnipotent, omniscient and everlasting. No other subject matter can even come close. I have enough stories to tell for an eternity. No more late nights; no more anxiety; no more self-inflicted pressure; no more yearning for manmade awards. I have the Lord Almighty God on my side. You can too, but you don’t have to be a writer. And, if you are a writer, try to add a little humor to your story.

P.S. I still made the deadline.

NKJV=New King James Version

Psalm 119:105 NKJV

Job 36:4, NKJV

Jeremiah 1:9 NKJV

Proverbs 22:17-19 NKJV

Author: Pete Gautchier

Acknowledgement: Reedsyprompts.com