Put Down That Pencil!

You’re surrounded, commanded the booming metallic voice from outside. Give yourself up!

The occupant inside the barricaded room defiantly replies, I’m not giving up!

Moments later a squad a black-uniformed men in combat boots burst into the room amid a shower of splinters. The remnants of the door lay in pieces under their feet. Every man’s rifle is pointed at the “suspect”.

Stand back, he menaces threateningly! I’ve got a weapon. I’ve used it before and if I have to, I’ll use it again. Brandishing a pencil, he waves it about wildly. Another pencil is tucked behind his ear. The swat team freezes. It’s their worst scenario, the one they dread the most, a deranged “writer”.

Put down that pencil before someone gets hurt, the squad leader calmly intones. We’ve got to take you in.

On what grounds, the belligerent man stammers?

“Impersonating an author” is the reply.

For a moment the suspect hesitates, trigger fingers flex nervously. Silence, and then the squad leader speaks. It doesn’t have to be like this, he attempts to reason with the potential assailant. All the while, every member of the swat team is thinking to himself, What if that pencil goes off? Adjectives and verbs and other projectiles could fill the room with their deadly spray. And everyone knows that names really can hurt you!

The suspect appears confused and angry. You don’t understand, he stammers, no one does. Not my wife, the kids, or my boss at work. Even my own mother thinks I’m crazy to want to be a writer! His voice trails off, You don’t think I’m crazy, do you? Of course not, said, the officer. Both men know he’s lying.

For a brief moment, there is silence in the standoff. The situation appears to be stabilized, yet precariously perched on the precipice of chaos. The sergeant glances around the room. He is appalled by the sight, the obvious signs of an addict are all around! Pads of paper, writing journals, ...and the pencils! Those deadly implements of senseless verbiage and prose. A trash can off to side is surrounded, overflowing with crumpled wads of attempted literary efforts. It’s much worse than I thought. If only someone seen the signs, had turned him in, he could have gotten help. But now it’s come to this. Another disillusioned literary “wannabe” with delusions of grandeur.

The silence is broken by the sergeant. You want to talk about it...you know, tell me how this happened?

It all started so innocently, he said, lowering his guard. A book report here, an essay there. One thing leads to another and before you know it...his voice falters…before you know it you’re doing lap tops and then word processors. I can’t stop myself. A few words here, a sentence or two there. Then the paragraphs, I can’t get the paragraphs to stop. They’re in my head!

He didn’t have to say a word, the real horror was told in the eyes of the suspect. The extent of his condition was broadcast by those glazed over eyes from staring for hours at a blank, luminescent monitor. His hand moves slowly toward a keyboard, his fingers began to twitch around the keys uncontrollably.

He continues after a pause. The disease spread. At first I’m shoving manuscripts at a few of my friends but there not interested. At first they tried to be nice but soon they avoid me. Now I’m asking total strangers to proof read for me!

A negotiator is called in to defuse the terse standoff. He cautiously makes his way into he room, stepping around the remnants of the smashed door. We can help, he says. A padded cell, we’ll get you some counseling, and a good treatment program. With any luck, you can beat this. Afterwards, we’ll relocate you, set you up with a charter of AA, Author’s Anonymous. Listen to me, I know what you’re going through, it’s happened to me too. An audible gasp fills the room, uneasy members of the swat team glance at each other nervously.

For the first time, the suspect appears to consider surrender. He ponders before he replies. What will happen if I don’t turn myself in, he questions?

It will go hard on you, probably incarceration. Maybe even...he falters.

No, the suspect gasps, not…not a rejection letter!

Yes, I’m afraid so!

With that, he surrenders and is escorted to a waiting patrol car to be whisked away. All right, the squad leader announces to the crowd that gathered around to watch, Go home! It’s all over now. The crisis has been resolved...

...or has it?

Sergeant, a team member urgently cries out. Come here quick! He is obviously in a state of panic.

What is it, man?

One of the pencils is missing! Someone must have gotten it.

Here we go again!