Writers Anonymous

I sat in the back of a large hall, clouded with smoke from the cigarettes used to allay the effects of other addictions. A rotund little man approached the podium, his face jovial and kind.

“This meeting is called to order,” he smiled encouragingly. “Who would like to start this evening?” A hand rose in the middle of the room.

A well-dressed man with silver hair rose from his chair. “My name is John and I am an alcoholic.” In a firm voice he told his story, finishing with “I haven’t had a drink in three years.” The hall filled with applause, those closest to him patted his back encouragingly.

His courage opened the floodgates and people everywhere clamored to make their confessions.

“My name is Charles. I am a murderer and I killed for the joy of it.”

“My name is Jeffrey, I am a killer and I take my nourishment from the flesh of my victims.”

On and on the confessions continued, each admitting to their addictions, each receiving the approval of the group, their collective encouragement.

Even the next to last confessor, “My name is Louis, I am a vampire. I drink the nectar of my victims to satisfy the bloodlust.”

Finally only one tortured soul remained. All eyes turned to me. I stood on trembling legs. Hanging my head I spoke softly to my shoes. “My name is Jan and I am a writer.”

I might as well have shouted my confession. A gasp of horror rose from the others. I saw several trace the sign of the cross to ward off evil. Shock drained the blood from their countenances. A hundred faces turned towards me, all as pale and translucent as the vampire’s. All except for the leader. His face turned purple and his features contorted into a mask of rage.

“How dare you!” He screamed at me. “How dare you invade us who are trying to conquer out addictions, our failures. It is you and your kind who are responsible for the despair that pervades this room. You that infuse our children with the dreams of a better life. You that cause the armed conflicts that murder our young men. You who are responsible for the ideas that topple civilizations. You who prostitute yourselves, selling off pieces of your soul to anyone who has the price of a penny dreadful.”

“GET OUT!” His voice shook the room. “We are hanging on to the last shreds of hope by our very fingernails. And you,” he spat. “There is no hope for the likes of you at all!”

My eyes flew open and the ceiling of my bedroom stared down at me. Sweat beaded my brow and my heart thundered in my chest.

Only a dream I realized. I repeated the words like a litany until my heart quieted and my breathing slowed. And a silly one at that, I assured myself, pulling the blanket over my suddenly chill body. Of course there was hope. As long as there was life, there was hope. I turned onto my side, closed my eyes and willed the dream away.

The melody came so softly a first that I wasn’t really sure if I was hearing it or just a memory of it. Just to be sure, I began reciting words. The Lord’s Prayer, The Gettysburg Address, the soliloquy from “Hamlet." Anything, just so the sound of my voice would crowd out the siren’s song. But the melody kept increasing in volume until I was shouting and yet unable to hear my own voice.

I surrendered, no longer able to resist the seductive call. With a sign I sat up, turned on the bedside lamp and reached for paper and pen.

The little man was right. I was doomed to spend a lifetime with pen at my side, subject to wild seizures where I would scribble words madly across the smooth surface of my notebook. After all, my name is Jan, and I am a writer.