Writer’s Roadblock

Plunk, plunk…

Used to be clack, clack. Or scritch scratch. The more things change…

I wrote the short story, ‘On the Edge.’ You’ve heard of it. Maybe not. Been a while.

That story grabbed everyone who read it. A published jewel, it glowed. Every sentence perfect. It stunned.

If AI could dream, it would wake up screaming at its lack of imagination…

AI might regurgitate all the experts, but can it capture a beating heart? A shimmering soul? Pain? Make you cry? Or care?

Ahh, but with ‘On the Edge,’ readers’ mouths dropped open. And the last sentence? Projectile tears, my friend. That story had it all.

It made me famous. For about five minutes. Nine years back.

Now I sit. Grind out copy, meet deadlines and imagine what might have been.

No. What was. What could be again. If only…

I was on the way. The next Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Bradbury… Everyone knew my name. Anyone on the street could tell you the title. On the Edge.

Toast of the town! Me.

Published in the New Yorker!

Taught in English classes. A classic.

Hollywood battled for the rights. Almost embarrassing. (But not really.)

Fun.

I was the rising star. Next stop… splat.

No follow through.

How hard can it be?

You tell me. I don’t know.

Glad to meet you. I’m called Mr. Flash-in-the-Pan. You can drop the ‘mister.’

One and done.

I caught a falling star and fumbled it into the gutter. Never seen again.

Forget being the ‘next’ anyone. I won’t be a Johnny-come-lately. I’ll be the one and only, thank you. The original. The Nonpareil.

What everyone wants to be.

Someone else can be the poor-man’s me. Be my guest.

~

Deadlines. Meet one and another waits. Like a vampire. Do they travel in packs?

Type ‘The End,’ and voila! Start again.

Always another deadline emerging from the shadow with its hand out. Relentless as a midnight train.

The only choice seems to be deadlines – or breadlines… What are they good for? Absolutely nothing!

Six days to create. No rest.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ll never retire. Don’t want that. I’ll keep writing. Never stop ‘til they pry the pen from my cold…

You know… the word is mightier than the sword.

But the grind. The non-stop, yawning abyss demanding more and more and better and faster. How does anyone cope?

Oh, right. Enter AI.

I’m a pro. I meet the deadlines. Me. A journeyman hack, churning lackluster stories out to feed the maw.

Faster. Faster.

Who, what, when, where… Why’s that all you got?

Welcome to the music of the fears.

Take Beethoven’s 5th.

Bump, bum, bum, bommm… so simple, yet pure genius.

Sure, it gets old. A cliché. Anything does, if you listen to it for two or three hundred years. Add a century or two and anything lasting that long is bound to get parodied. It didn’t start that way. It was startling. Clichés coattail genius. They’re based on something solid.

When heard for the first time? Exquisite ecstasy flooding over you.

First times are magic. Everyone remembers the first time they drove a car. Kissed a girl. Their first pet. On and on.

What makes all those firsts stand out? They’re unique in our experience. Forget the repeat performances.

Can one ever repeat, re-create, or revisit an elusive first-time event?

Nope.

If it’s a re-do, it ain’t the first. Subject to comparison, it won’t be the same.

You’ve heard there’s a first time for everything? ‘No redos’ is my motto. Keep it fresh.

Inevitably life involves repetition. Eat. Sleep. Sit. Stand. Inhale... ex… Love? Loss? Grief? The stuff of repetition is best shared. Brings people together. The fabric of life.

But writing? Sometimes collaborative, but largely a solo gig.

How many times can one walk through the same door? I ask you, what lies beyond that threshold?

For me, it’s ‘damn the torpedoes.’ No looking back. I’ll pass on the pillars of salt. Maybe you’re different.

~

Back to my story. ‘On the Edge.’ Every word glowed. It came together, a perfect souffle you could savor over and again.

How does one capture that essence? That spark? That ineffable life force surging upward?

Don’t want to repeat myself. Have I said that? But to let every story bloom like the first flower. Having no precedent. Then another. Ever and always unique. That’s a worthy goal.

Magic isn’t accidental. A magician pulls that rabbit every night without fail. He knows what he’s doing. He’s a pro at sleight of hand. But every night, it’s the same old rabbit.

Is that it? I only had one story in me and I’m through? Am I just a lucky fool on the precipice? The barking dog knows more than me? Stumble onto a treasure trove and lose the key?

Win the lotto and homeless in a year?

Clueless.

~

Lightning in a bottle. Then, writer’s block.

I tried it all. Drunk. Sober. Plastered. High… Chased down rabbit holes within rabbit holes.

Yoga retreats. Mega-meditation.

Bungee jumped down the Grand Canyon.

I analyzed my words. Examined every syllable through a magnifying glass. Wrote left-handed with multi-colored ink. Debated a Ouija board through the I Ching. Employed the Cut-Up technique - random reassembling of words. Re-read the classics, backwards, forwards, upside down… Slept with my thesaurus. Caught it cheating on me.

Came up dry. Nothing but dreck. Wasted ink. Flirting with carpel tunnel syndrome. And no payoff.

Finally coming to my senses, not only had I lost my mojo to write vibrant prose, but two weeks, no, a month of my life (or more?) had evaporated. No trace.

How far can one travel and get less than nowhere? I attached an odometer to my pen. All those miles and still sitting at my desk. Static. Lost my edge.

Even driving forty miles of bad road, one finds a turn off. ‘Yeah, my suspension’s shot, but I got home.’ But with writing? Forty miles of ruts and endless, meandering detours may be the best you’re going to get.

One freakin’ story with a flash of genius… that became my white whale. But I didn’t want to go down with it. Never want to ship-wreck. Don’t call me Ishmael.

A story entices. Seduces, dazzles… allures and eludes. Filled with promise, like the best sex ever. Not one and done.

But lately they recede. Just beyond reach. Slip my grasp.

I knew her. We had no secrets. Shared everything.

Delectable… and gone.

But day after day, a blank sheet stares back. I’m vacant and alone.

I want shelves filled with my work. Not one measly story. One story doesn’t sustain accolades. Nor ten. People gaze at mountains. They hop over puddles.

You think Sir Edmund Hillary climbed Everest, returned to the base and headed up again? To perfect the previous climb? This one will be better? Always climbing to perfection?

Or stop half-way up? How many stories left unfinished?

A mountain.

~

My editor approached my desk. “You have that interview?”

“Right. Wrapping it up now.”

“Needed it twenty minutes ago. I told you...”

“Proofing it. Saving you the trouble.”

“No trouble. Need it now.”

“Here.”

I handed him the pages. Typewriters are long gone but he likes a print out so he can mark it up in red pencil. Like a third-grade teacher. Knock yourself out.

Scanning, he said, “Won’t win any Pulitzers... It’ll do.”

What could I say?

He glanced at me. “Don’t just sit there. Type. We have deadlines.”

He left me with his concept of motivation.

Who puts up with that abuse?

I deserve better. I’m a recognized author. At least in some, ever shrinking circles. Round and round it goes. Need to prove myself again. And again.

He thinks stringing words together is easy. A kid could do it…

But make the heart yearn?

It’s the old, ‘what have you done for me lately?’

~

Non-writers don’t get it. How could they?

Up late, chasing that elusive story, my wife came up behind me. Startled me.

“Come to bed, Honey. It’s after one.”

I said, “This thing’s on the run. Either it or me. Got it cornered. I’ll be in soon.”

She set her glass down on my manuscript and sat by me. Condensation soaked into the pages.

I picked up the glass. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t have a coaster.”

“Look. I’m in hot pursuit of my next masterpiece. I’ll be in, in a few.”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Babe. But duty calls.”

She sighed, kissed the top of my head, and left.

Who expects a distraction to understand a distraction?

~

How to recapture the fleeting image of that first… whatever?

Tapping into what made that one great story so great. But blazing a new trail.

I get why second novels stall. Spinning a fresh tale un-haunted by the rattling chains of previous success is no mean feat. No story stands alone, but in the dim glow of what came before.

Lightning does strike twice. But the second strike is derivative.

Gotta startle. Generate stellar work from a blank slate.

An editor once commanded, “Give me something new, that I’ve never seen...”

“On it…”

But he didn’t stop there. “…And with that awesome feel of that big hit from last season...”

“Right away…”

Tell me about it. Story of my life. Find the edit point.

I’m not a drum machine. Who can just change the names and press print? I need a character whose heart syncs with the reader’s pounding heart.

Can’t capture the first rush. How does one generate a fresh rush unsullied by what came before?

Throw out the cookie cutter.

It must be incomparable or it won’t measure up.

~

People tell me I need a hobby. A pet. To clear my mind. Gain perspective. Find my fallow self.

Lunching with fellow writers, I knew they’d wearied of my rants.

One said, “You should quit.”

“What?”

“Give it up.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You’ve got to live, man. You miss so much, locked in a room with your computer. There’s a world out there. Live.”

The others agreed. They think I'm obsessed. But I'm not. I just can't think of anything else.

I nodded. “You’re right. Kind of life’s essence… sharing.”

They smiled. Fellow writers, they were more akin to ravening wolves than true friends.

I leaned in and said, “But I can’t live by committee dictate. I can’t surrender what drives me, what feels like life, to a panel of experts.”

They don’t know I papered my bathroom walls with rejection slips. Twice.

How long can I chase this phantom? Up and down, round and round… Carousel or roller coaster? A distinction without a difference?

This endless road drives me crazy. I’ll drive for hours and wonder, have I passed this way before? So familiar, but never the same.

And then there’s that nagging sense of someone on that road seeking to divert me from my destination. Incessant detours. Someone invisible, but the evidence is everywhere.

I won’t stop. I won’t turn off. Or pull over. Haven’t run out of gas.

Do I see lights glowing over the next rise? I’m curious. Can’t stop now. Could be almost home. Maybe a different home. Again.