“DAMN!!”
I said as I slammed my fists against the frail table. I’ve sat here every night for the past few weeks with the worst writers block of my life. In order to fix it I made the serious stipulation that I would kill myself if I didn’t come up with an idea that matches the brilliance of my mind. Hopefully, the thought of putting a bullet in my brain is enough to get the juice flowing again.
I sit and twiddle my thumbs, combing my brain for any semblance of an idea. About six months ago I sold a book of personal stories about my experience going through a difficult break up. The stories were filled love, infidelity, and titillating excitement, none of which were about me. I had brainstormed these ideas with a vocal part of my subconscious I’ve come to call my grotesque half. Him and I worked on these stories for a month. He made up most of the stories based on my actual break-ups and replaced the humiliating parts with interesting narratives that “make it look like I have depth.” After a few months of promising an idea, my editor was getting impatient. I gave myself till the fourth of September to come up with a story that could make money and win an award. Today is the third, and I have been digging for almost anything. I nearly took out my gun early when I thought of Pluto not being a planet because it’s a “suspicious spider’s nest”. There were only so many hours in the day and I needed to think of something. My life depended on it.
I keep glancing at my phone, afraid to re-read that text my editor sent a week ago.
“Good morning. I don’t mean to bug ya bit it’s been four months since you told me about your new process. I’m not sure what that process is but I need something to offer. It would be one thing if you were a more experienced author but you’ve only written one book. I can’t stay in limbo forever. Please don’t prove my colleagues right. Don’t make us both look worthless.”
Jesus. It’s been gnawing at me all week. “Worthless!” I never thought I would attribute that word to myself. I thought I was somewhat of an eloquent thinker.
“Well, now you’re not.”
“This doesn’t just fall on me! You’re also me! If I look stupid, you look stupid! Can’t you have my back for once!”
“Hey! I care! Just not as much. You take the hardest hit, after all. Plus, I did most of the heavy lifting while writing those stories. You just brought the mediocre inspiration.”
“Hey! That “inspiration” was emotionally taxing to come by. All you did was outline it.”
“First of all, you outline me! Second of all, I’m your soul.”
“Shut up! I can’t explain but I know I’m a prodigy. I can feel it deep inside.”
“Are you forgetting who you’re talking to?! I AM deep inside and I feel the delusion you send my way. I don’t know how you can function with such a distorted view of your-self! Every day, it feels like you’ve dropped acid and you’re convinced you’ve become God!”
“Shut up! You’re just being a hater!”
“Ya see? That’s a better representation of yourself. A person who hates himself would be more realistic.”
“You can shut up if you’re not going to help me!”
“Ha! Okay fine! I’ll pitch where I can.”
I hate my inner voice. I wish he could understand how much better I’d be if he would stop the chatter.
A couple hours have passed and I’m no closer to coming up with something. I woke up from a dream of me getting beaten up by my editor. He called me a hawbsbawmian fraud over and over and over again which caused me to wake up soaked in my own fluids. I needed to hurry. Me and my lesser half were slinging ideas.
“You buy a lizard, and he turns out to be ruler of the world.”
“No! Take a writing class!”
“How about… an office manager who finds out he manages the gates of Hell.”
“Man! This is hopeless!”
“No! The story could be about a half-man half-dinosaur who haunts a pre-school. It could be a statement on child predators.”
All the ideas my other half were suggesting were crap bordering on hate-crimes. I have less than an hour to think of an idea or my brains are going to screw up the wall-paper. I was about to drift off again when it hit me. I could write about this situation. I had been so focused on not dying that I forgot that the mental ravings of a mad-man were marketable. The story would be about a man who has made a bet to kill himself if he couldn’t write a love story that would win him an award and the love of his life.
“That’s your story?! You’re basic and lack creativity. I hope you understand the world doesn’t need you.”
My shitty half didn’t appear to like it but I wasn’t going to let a small-minded ass influence my thinking. I hopped on my laptop and chipped away to finish the rough draft asap.
*****
This was my last night. I was going to end it tonight if I couldn’t write a brilliant work and get Roxy to love me the way I’ve loved her most of my life. I need to prove myself to the world the way some prove themselves by being simple craftsmen. Not me, I’m no good at anything and must write my thoughts in a way that will light up the world. It’s my responsibility as an artist and I won’t let this precious time slip away. I‘ve been trying to dig deep, but my idiot other half keeps trying to discourage my work.
“Have you given up yet?!”
“I don’t need your negativity.”
“My negativity? You’re using your life as incentive to produce work! How am I the negative one?!”
“I must stick to my commitments. How can anybody take me seriously if I prove to be a lying hack?! I must show the world my eloquence!”
“No one knows about this ‘commitment’. You’re not that important, ya silly billy.”
“This doesn’t matter. It is the responsibility of the genius mind to do what he needs to enlighten the masses. I will think of something and if you can’t recognize my talent, you can leave.”
“I would break out of this skull if I could.”
I had only an hour left and was losing hope of a potential future. My annoying half couldn’t help but chip away at all my ideas.
“Hmmm. How about an under-appreciated dog who is secretly God?”
“Dude! That sounds tacky!”
“Maybe the dog is the Illuminati?”
“C’mon! Think of something low concept. It better suits you.”
“A man is thinking of leaving his girlfriend but realizes she was someone he made up to look cool in front of his peers?”
“Hmmm. It’s better but how would it end?”
“He would create an AI sex doll and bring her to family functions.”
“Wow! You had something good and you fucked it up!”
“His semen will create angels! It’s a metaphor!!”
“Who are you?!”
I was losing patience with both my-selves. How could he not see the magic I was bringing to the table?
I had thirty minutes left to give the world what it needed and I was petrified. I was freewriting like mad and no closer to digging up gold. It was gibberish; My other half now had negative faith in my ability.
“Just take LSD. It will create ideas in no time.”
“It will take away from my natural mind. You just don’t understand.”
“Oh. I understand. I just think you’re full of shit and by association so am I!”
This was going nowhere and I was getting tired. Maybe if I rest my eyes for a few moments I can dig into the recesses of my soul.
Shit shittttt!!!!!! I fell asleep! I have less than five minutes before I have to accept my death! While asleep, I received a text from Roxy asking for my location. Damn! I told her we’d meet around this time. I was going to pour my heart to her in way that would have changed her world while winning me the prestige I deserved. Instead, she will get my brains ruining my upholstery.
“Should have just asked her out.”
“Not now! The heart has its own language!”
I ran to get my gun from the chipped drawer I kept it in for the last three months. Maybe holding it to my head for the last minute will scare me into some sort of an idea.
Thirty seconds left and the gun is just making me nervous. All my ideas were starting to run together; A dog that is also a lizard, A god that is also confused about life, and Hitler is just a dog. I am dead. Five seconds left. Holding the gun to my head. Four seconds left. Cocking the pistol. Three seconds left. Squeezing tight. Two seconds left. Taking a deep breath. One second…….
“AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!”
BANG!!!
*****
Done! I just need to edit this a bit and I am good to go. I have discovered my process and my “lesser” half is speechless. Hah! I get to live and he gets to keep living in my shadow.
*****
“We are proud to announce our latest winner of The Union City Graham Award of Excellence. Never has a writer delivered such shocking prose mixed with the wit and eloquence of a young John Steinbeck. It has been a great pleasure reading this story and we hope he will have more to give. Please! Give a round of applause to, our guest, William Bruckner!”
The crowd gives an above average applause for an event like this. I receive many handshakes as I make my way to accept the award that saved my life. I hop to the podium and smile in the sea of excited new fans as I take the mic and clear my throat.
“Thank you all for the kind words. I am happy to say that I do plan on writing more. As long as there are fans, I will deliver!”
I receive another round of applause before I exit the stage.
I feel a huge weight lifted off my shoulders as I spend some quality time with the hors d’oeuvres. I began to reach for a pig in a blanket when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Ron Diaz, the owner of one of the largest publishing houses in the city.
“Will! I’m happy to see you have more success. To be honest, we thought you were just a one trick pony. After all, it’s hard to come up with intense stories from your past break-ups.”
I struggle but manage to keep my composure.
“Ha ha. Trust me! I’ve got plenty of tricks up my sleeve.”
“I hope so because we could really use your talent on our catalog.”
“Wow…..Y-Y-Yes! I would be honored to be a part your paper.”
“That’s the spirit. I know short fiction is your specialty, but I’d really like to see you produce a novel. I think it would be a chance for you to explore other talents I’m confident you have.”
“Sir. It would be my pleasure to sail this horizon for you.”
“Excellent! I will email you a contract later tonight as well as a deadline.”
We shook hands and went our separate ways. I collected my stuff and left the ceremony with a sense of renewal. It was as if all the negative thoughts I had about myself were being proven false. I felt like gloating to my less flattering self but I didn’t feel him around. It’s okay, he knows exactly what has happened and he is too humiliated to show his face to me. I decided to call him anyway.
“Hey! Can you see what happened today? Our, I mean, my story won an award and one of the largest publishing houses in the city wants me to write a novel.”
No answer. I guess he’s being a sore loser so I’m just going to let him sulk.
*****
I woke up the next day with great excitement to start this new project. I made a cup of coffee, grabbed my favorite pen, sat in my special chair, and began to free-write like mad. I felt like I found my process, which was to dig deep in my mind and talking to my inner self, but he didn’t want to speak with me so I was just going to have to channel from my hand. I began to get into this process, pouring my heart onto paper like a broken glass of beet juice. Word after word, thought after thought, I was not sparing a thing this morning.
I spent the whole of an hour putting pen to paper, feeling more alive than ever, when I came to a sour realization: I had not written a single interesting thought. Everything I wrote was surface level crap you could find in an airline magazine — except the airline magazine would have had a goal of selling you something. Nothing was interesting here.
I went to the bathroom and wanted to brush my teeth but thought I should pee first and need to hurry so I can write my thing. I feel good so good that I want cereal. I will be the man of life and I want women to love me but only in a good way way like rocky…
It was another two pages of that. Mentioning Rocky was the deepest I was able to get and even that was pathetic. Maybe I just have writer’s block. I recall my creative writing teacher saying that if you have writer’s block you should take a long break. Go to a party and fuck someone, he would tell us. Well, if you say so Mr. Grilly. I put down my laptop and texted anyone who might know of a party.
After waiting another hour, and not receiving a single text back, I realized I didn’t need to go to a party. I could just drink the whisky I have hidden in my bathroom. I called it my special surprise potion. I yanked the whiskey from the cabinet and immediately downed a quarter of the bottle as if my future depended on it. Once I sat in my drinking chair and drank another quarter of the bottle, I realized the best time to free-write was when you are drunk and depressed and want to puke your heart out. I sat down and drained whatever I had left in my head until I passed out.
I woke up the next morning with page after page, as well as two empty bottles, scattered around the living room. I had the worst headache of my life and wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of today unconscious or dead. However, I didn’t have time to spend the day dying on the couch as I had to go over all that I have written. It was a little exciting to go over the thoughts my drunk self. It’s like getting a peek into my inner madness. I snatched one of the papers, hoping to find my inner writer, and reeled when I saw the same crap from before I started drinking, the only difference being that this was the ravings of a drunk without any of the excitement.
“I has to go get my afro with the milk in morning as I go eat lunch wit Sofia and have two meals instead of one. I hav no mother no more and its fine she had a good life……”
This went on page after page. I wrote my daily routine and I think it was less interesting on paper. I spent the next thirty minutes looking for anything that would be interesting to build on with no luck. I did, however, stumble onto a paper with different colored ink. Did I write this page in purple ink then immediately replace it with another black pen? The writing was very clear and concise and I was impressed until I read the note. It was from my lesser half.
Dear Me,
I hope you are happy with the story I implanted in your head. I had grown tired of your narcissism and this was my only way out. I just want you to know that I hated most of my time with you, the only exceptions being when you drank yourself into a stupor. I just want to end this note by telling you that I am the reason you had any creative ideas and without me you are just going to write about your day over and over again. I hope you enjoyed your last good story.
Love,
The better you.
Shit!! I feel like a fool. How can I follow my dreams without my inner voice? Even if he was a dick who didn’t want me to succeed, he was still an important part of me creatively. I was about to put down my pen for good when I realized my issue. I was going about this writer thing all wrong. The best writers are the people who can leave behind some mystery with what they write. The most mysterious writers are the ones who kill themselves at a young age. If I shoot myself, whatever I write will be legendary. I can see it now… “Minor author found shot with mysterious musings of his day.” I will create a mystery for my fans. Its settled! I grab my gun and look in the mirror. I give myself one last smile, cock the gun, and whisper “You genius.” Then,
BANG!!!
