2,487 words
Once again, George had writers’ block. The writers’ block did not loosen its grip. If anything, his procrastination grew deeper and more pervasive as the days, weeks and months went by
“Why,” he asked himself aloud, “am I plagued by these long periods of writers’ block. I have read like a fiend for years, I have taken writers’ classes and attended writers’ conferences and I have been in writers’ groups. Still, I think about writing more than I actually write.”
He mused on, “When I was drinking, I can’t remember than I ever had writers’ block. No matter how sauced I was I could still write. Didn’t get much published. Didn’t even finish most of the projects I started. But, boy, could I write: day and night; weekends and holidays; you name it and that’s when I wrote. The storylines just kept coming. Sometimes it was only a few lines. Sometimes it was a hundred pages. Whew! Hasn’t been like that for years; not since I sobered up and started going to the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings.
“Maybe, just maybe, I can control the drinking and do the writing like in the old days. I have been ‘dry’ long enough. I know I can control the drinking this time. Two other guys in the group control their drinking. It’s worth a try. If it doesn’t work, I will just go back on the wagon and back to the AA meetings.
“Something has to work,” he said and slammed his right fist into his left palm. “I can’t take that stupid day job any longer. I have enough money saved for six months of writing, especially if I keep my nose to the computer and stay away from all of the things that have been interfering with the writing, things like dining out, going to movies and reading crummy books, books written by hacks.”
With that said, he put on his jacket and walked out into the warm winter sunshine. It was January in southern Arizona and the entire area was in the midst of a serious drought. The upside of that meant that his winter heating bills were negligible. The downside was that he had to spend far more on water, just to keep some of the prized plants in his yard half-alive.
He drove to the supermarket and bought several bottles of inexpensive wine. Wine was not his first choice, but it was the least expensive. And, as he drank, he knew from experience that it would not take much wine to keep him ‘just drunk enough’ to break the writers’ block.
When George got back in his house, he got into his most comfortable clothes, sat in his most comfortable chair and slowly drank a glass of the dark, red wine. He could feel the wine flow down his throat and settle in his stomach. With the second glass, he felt the first flush of a drunk spreading through his body and his mind. When the second glass was empty, he got up from his chair, went to the computer and began to search through his old storylines for ‘the one’ that would fire his imagination and ‘kick-start’ his creative processes.
He found one that sparked his interest. He loaded it from the hard disk onto the screen, scrolled through the meager body of the piece twice and began to write. He barely stirred for two hours. The piece ‘grew’ by several hundred words.
He followed the advice of one of his writing instructors and paid little attention to correct punctuation, spelling or grammar. He would go back and pay attention to the word processing program’s punctuation, spell-check and grammar checking features later, he told himself. His total focus was that of putting words on the screen. He saved often but did little in the way of reading, reflecting or evaluating his work.
Page after page ‘poured’ from his mind as he periodically poured himself another glass of wine. With ever-increasing frequency, he had to stop writing to go to the bathroom. He paid little attention to anything but his writing. He did not eat regularly or with anything approaching his usual enthusiasm for food. He barely slept the first night.
By the end of the second day, he believed that he had a ‘finished’ an eight thousand-word story. He set it aside without going through the process of checking his punctuation, spelling and grammar. “Later,” he whispered. “All of that can come later.” He did not even read it to see if it was a coherent, consistent piece.
He staggered off to bed and slept for ten hours. When he woke up, it was with a definite hangover. “Better get a little of the ‘hair of the dog,’” he said. He drank his first glass of wine, went to the toilet, took a shower, ate a scant breakfast and went back to work.
George selected a second storyline from the long list on the computer’s hard drive. He went over the details of the story in his mind. It was one he had high hopes for when he first got the idea. But, after writing only a few hundred words, the block set. “It will pass,” he thought. He found other things to do, but soon he returned to his desk.
Once again, he filled the computer screen with words, sentences, paragraphs and pages. He paid little attention to what he was writing, but he filled and then emptied his wine glasses with increasing frequency. He had to stop writing to go once more to the supermarket for a new stock of wine. He bought several cases.
Back at the computer, he set to work. For the next four days, he set an almost frenzied pace of typing. He drank heavily but with little apparent impact on his creative ‘rush.’ Any pretense of a balanced diet, or of exercise, or of regular sleep was almost completely abandoned. He ignored the phone; messages piled up and went unanswered.
His older sister stopped by to check on him. “Why don’t you answer your phone or return you messages, George?” she asked.
“You know how I am when the writing is going well,” he responded.
“Well, you might take a little time to shower and shave,” she suggested. “Also, your breath and this house smell like a winery. I thought you were off the stuff for good. What caused you to fall off the wagon?”
“I didn’t ‘fall off the wagon’ as you put it.” He looked away from her accusing stare. “I deliberately chose to drink . . . to control my drinking, that is. It helps me with the writing. It frees me from the shackles of non-creativity. It only takes a little wine before I sit down and the writing flows.”
“Humph, I’ve heard that before. That’s what you thought the last time . . . really, every time. Why is this different?”
“It’s different this time because I thought it through. Because I am in control. Because I am ‘using it’ instead of ‘abusing it.’ That’s why.”
“So, when are you going to quit? When are you going to be through with your project so you can go back on the wagon?”
“Not sure. Maybe in a few days, or weeks, or months. The time is not important. What is important is that I am in control and the wine is relaxing me just enough so I have conquered the writers’ block. I have already finished one story and I am nearly done with another. I have three more story lines on the computer that I can’t wait to get to.”
“I hope you’re right, this time. Well, let me know if I can do anything for you. Since you don’t have time to do it yourself, you really should get a cleaning woman to come in at least once a week. It wouldn’t hurt to air the place out during the warm part of the day either.”
“Thanks, sis. I’ll take some time away from the writing and do the housework myself. I need just that sort of break once in a while. And, I’ll take you up on the suggestion and open the house up each afternoon, if it gets warm enough outside.”
“George, please keep in touch. We get worried when you ‘hole up’ like this. It isn’t at all healthy. No point in ruining your health. You’ll need your health and stamina when you become rich and famous from your creative rush. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Sis. I’ll be okay. You’ll see. Three or four more stories and I will send a batch to Will.”
“Will? I thought you and he were on the ‘outs.’ When did you get back on his good side?”
“Will? He’ll forgive and forget once he reads my first round of pieces. He is in business to make money and to help his clients and to help his oldest and best graduate school buddy.”
“Maybe. He seemed pretty set against you and your work the last time I got a note from him.”
“Water under the bridge. It will all be sweetness and light when he sees that I am back on track with my writing . . . when he gets a gander at the level of my creativity.”
“I should go, George. I hope you don’t use hackneyed clichés in your writing the way you do when we talk.”
“See you later, Sis. So glad you could come by.” He offered as she went out the door.
George poured himself a glass of wine, sat back down at the computer and went to work.
Over the next several weeks, he cranked out several more short stories. He continued to drink. He failed to eat either regularly or with any attention to a balanced diet. He abandoned any pretext of personal hygiene. The house was a mess. It smelled like cheap wine. He smelled like most homeless winos.
Late one night, after he finished the seventh story, he staggered off to bed. The next morning, he could not get up. He lay in bed and tried to find the motivation and the energy. Neither came. His craving for a drink of wine became acute.
He rolled out of bed and crashed to the floor. He crawled over to a table that held a half-empty glass of wine. With great effort, he pulled himself up far enough so he could grasp the glass. He spilled most of the wine on the rug, but he did manage a few gulps. He began to shake.
The wine revived him enough so he was able to stagger out to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. He found some ‘ancient’ orange juice in the fridge. He opened a cupboard and found a jar with some honey in it. He poured most of the honey in a glass and added some of the orange juice. With difficulty, he put the glass in the microwave and heated the mixture.
When the honey-orange mixture was warm, he took the glass out of the microwave, stirred the mixture vigorously with a spoon, raised the glass unsteadily to his lips and drank. By then, the coffee was ready. He slopped in three-quarters of a cup and burned his mouth trying to drink some.
He ran some cold water from the kitchen faucet into the coffee, stirred the coffee and drank it.
He began to feel somewhat better but he was still shaking and unsteady on his feet. He sat down at the computer and began to compose a letter to his friend and former publisher, Will.
George was the principle reason that Will graduated from the master’s program in English at the state university. Will went on to become a successful literary agent after struggling several years as a writer. The company Will founded was one of the most noted literary agent companies in the nation.
George struggled with the letter. He found that he could not frame the sentences he wanted . . . could not come up with the phrases that he felt were necessary to accompany his stories. After several failed attempts, he managed to write a letter that met his approval.
He put the letter on top of the stories and packed the lot in a shipping box. He addressed the box to Will personally. Later, he recovered enough to drive to the post office, to stand in line and to get the box in the mail.
On the way home, he stopped in the supermarket and bought two gallons of orange juice and a large jar of honey. Honey mixed in orange juice was the drink that many alcohol recovery units used. When George got back to his house, he drank several glasses of the honey and orange juice mix and a lot more coffee.
It didn’t work. He began to shake uncontrollably. To relieve the shaking, he drank several glasses of wine. That didn’t work either. He dialed the president of his AA chapter.
Several weeks later, George was back on the wagon. His stint at the alcohol recovery unit was painful but successful. While he was away in the recovery unit, his sister had the apartment professionally cleaned and thoroughly aired.
He got a letter in the mail. It was from Will. He opened it and read:
Dear George,I received your recent shipment of stories. After I read them over, I made copies and ‘farmed them out’ to two of my most trusted readers. Neither knew that the other had the stories. I wanted independent evaluations. I did not want our previous ‘disagreement’ to cloud my own view of the stories.
George, I have never forgotten – nor will I ever forget – how much you did for me in graduate school. You were the primary reason I got through. I owe you a great debt – one that I will never be able to repay fully – to you for all that you did for me.
However, both of the readers concurred almost exactly with my evaluation of the seven works. They felt, and I agreed, that the stories are just not up to the standards that the editors we work with require. I am not talking about the legions of punctuation, spelling and grammar problems. Those were correctable with our word processing program.
Rather, I am talking about the problems with the level of demonstrated creativity, almost without exception, in each of the stories and across the total batch.
The stories evoked a feeling that I had encountered stories with similar problems from you before. So, I checked back through your files and confirmed what I was sure of.
George, I hate to ask this, but I must. You aren’t back on the sauce, are you?
Kindest regards, /s/ Will