WRITER'S BLOCK

         Like The Bride of Frankenstein, my lawn mowing, brush-cutting machine was delivered in a raging thunderstorm. At 4:30 in the afternoon of July 2, 1999 the delivery truck pulled into my drive. The driver jumped out, opened the rear doors, climbed inside the back and began to lower the humongous box that he had maneuvered onto the power tailgate. I stood at the side of the truck watching.

         Around us lightning crackled as the storm neared. Thunder followed within a nano-second of each burst. The driver pushed the heavy cardboard container off the gate and onto the ground. He raced to the cab and brought out a clipboard with a bill of lading to be signed. The wind was beginning to howl. We shouted to each other,

         "It's coming on; you'd better get out of here fast."
         "It really flattened Schenectady. Just sign here. Damn, dropped the pen!"

         I picked it up and scratched my name. He tore off a copy, handed it to me and ran pell-mell back to his cab. Holding my receipt, I made a beeline to my front door and safety.

         For the next ninety minutes my wife and I watched the heavens throw thunderbolts over the landscape while the dog cowered in the basement. During one break in the action, I ran out with a box cutter and pulled open one side. The machinery didn't sport an Elsa Lanchester hairdo, but it looked pretty mean, encased in a wood frame.

         “You already wrote this; you are repeating yourself. Senility must be creeping in on little cat’s feet.”

         “Not you again, my muse without a name. You always show up when you are not wanted. As usual you have borrowed from others.”

         “My student’s habits rub off on me; that’s why I borrow. I have a name, you just don’t try to guess it.”

         “Amanda Wingfield? And what’s this about repeating myself?”

         “May 14, 2001, ‘Edward Scissorhands’, 1,166 words about your lawn mower, including the opening scene of the storm. I must admit your metaphor about The Bride is stronger than the pabulum you wrote last year, but how much lawn mowing can your readers take?
         “Oh, and Amanda I am not.”

         I hung my head; she was right. I had written the storm scene before. I found the old piece and read it again. Pabulum was a compliment. I clicked my right-button mouse button and consigned it to the Recycle Bin. Why hadn’t I spotted the file before?

         It’s kind of hard talking down to a three-inch tall muse dressed in a cross between Peter Pan and my dog groomer, but I tried to explain my problem to her.

         “It’s so dark in here. My lamps only take 60-watt bulbs. Now that’s an idea for a piece:"

         When did the 60-watt bulb become the standard for the lighting world? My light fixtures and newer table lamps all contain warnings: USE 60-WATT BULBS ONLY. Having lived for twenty years in a house where wiring predated the war---First, Second, Spanish-American--I am not sure; I know I am not used to this new regime. A 60 watt bulb throws off enough light to read any first grade reader.

         “How’s that sound?” Before she could answer, I hurled, “Daisy Buchanan?”

         “No, and it’s not James Buchanan either. Hate to tell you this, but check your files. On November 7, 2000 you not only wrote the same words, but also inflicted them on friends and those poor people in Alaska. You not only steal from others, but you rob your own purse too. Maybe you are planning to sue yourself?”

         “Very funny. Now that I think of it, those words do sound familiar. I just can’t seem to get started lately.”

         “And last time I was here you were complaining about how your work tore you away from your writing. In the immortal words of a psychic I know, you can’t seem to hit a happy medium.”

         I winced. How did she remember that punch line to an old joke that brought down the house in the Presbyterian Church when I was ten? She went on.

         “And the world does not need another story about your dog, cat, car, or latest trip to see Pamela. I don’t know how that woman puts up with you. I can hear her now; ‘Oh here comes the walking bore up the steps.’ She must use you in place of a sleeping pill. She writes rings around you.
         “It amazes me. You write one inspired story, create two original characters in Frick and Frack, and you don’t continue. I don’t understand you. Sometimes I think you are a snob, not wanting to be a writer of a police procedural.”

         I hit the “Print” button on the computer. The Brother spit out twelve pages of type. I handed them to her, smiled and acidly said,

         “I am not a snob. Here’s the latest installment, the Humpty-Dumpty murder. As for the originality of the characters, Frack and Frick are Pam and I, except she doesn’t eat donuts. And by the way, some readers tell me I stereotyped the cops by having them eat donuts. Kinsey Milhone? Miss Marple?”

         “Not even close! By the way, you also stereotyped the bears by having them eat honey.”

         She stopped talking and read the manuscript.

         “Well, it’s not done. Why aren’t you working on this?”

         “I have no idea where to go next. I’ve bumped off Mr. & Mrs. Dumpty, and have some idea that they could have been victims of the Sparrow gang, but.” My voice trailed off.

         “It’s long enough already. The Bears story was, what, 900 words?”

         “A few more. Here I wanted to build the main characters. If I am going to make a series out of it, the readers have to get to know Frick and Frack.”

         She leered at me and winked an eye. “Put a little romance in, huh? Maybe a sex scene?”

         “Oh, come on. It’s written for young teens.” Sometimes she gets me so mad.

         “What’s your word count now?”

         “Almost 4,000 words, I don’t think I am even halfway through.”

         She shook her head in disgust. “My god, Conan Doyle sent Holmes over the Falls in fewer words. Get cracking on it and stop robbing your own grave. Why don’t you get all the suspects in one room and prove that they all did it, or have the murder done by the author who is narrating the story?”

         “Christie used both of those devices, my dear muse, in case you forgot. Sometimes I wonder what you did with the money?”

         “What money?”

         “The money your mother gave you to take writing lessons.”

         I burst into loud laughter. For once I was on top. I plowed on.

         “Now if you will forgive me, I just thought of the start of an essay about my mother’s teapot full of Raleigh coupons.”

         “January 22, 2001. ‘Fortunes Always Hiding.’ Another amazingly mediocre piece, I’ve got to hand it to you, you can really spit them out.”

         My face fell. I wanted to step on and squash this little creature that crawled out of my computer when I least needed her, but if she were really a cricket, like the one in ‘Pinocchio’, it would bring bad luck. So I let loose all my vituperation on her, hoping to chase her back into the floppy drive.

         “You’re why I can’t think or write. You are a horrid little girl, like that one I used to read about to my daughter, that Pippi Longstocking.”

         I heard a sound like air rushing from a balloon. It was coming from my muse, who was flying about the room in uncontrolled circles.

         “You guessed my name. I’m not melting, I’m, I’m, I’m expiring. I won’t be back.”

         “Is that a promise?”

         I heard no more. It was time to get to work.

         It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.

Valatie May 31, 2002

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The muse made her first appearance in ""WHEN THE HURLYBURLY'S DONE""