When my eyes popped open it took me a minute to
remember where I was. The cold, damp air and smell of concrete, old lumber, and
insulation refreshed my memory. I lifted
my head from the table, wiped the drool from my cheek, and looked at the clock
on my laptop: 5 PM - time for dinner. I closed the lid and trudged up the steps
from my crude basement writing studio.
I had not written a novel in over three years. Two
previous books on the bestseller list gave me a financial cushion and latitude
from my publisher, but I began to grow more anxious with every wordless week. A
vacation in the mountains didn't break my mental block; neither did a
month-long stay in Key West. I'd hoped to glean some inspiration from Papa. I
toured the Hemingway home, threw back more than a few drinks at Sloppy Joe's
Bar, and even booked a day trip on a deep-sea fishing vessel whimsically named A
Moveable Feast. Unfortunately, all my efforts yielded neither revelation
nor illumination.
I returned home with my wife, hopeful that the dull
normalcy of our everyday lives would provide the spark I sought.
“How's the book coming?” Janelle asked as I closed the
door at the top of the stairs behind me.
“Still nothing,” I answered.
“What would you like to drink?”
“A dark beer in a frosty mug.”
I chowed down on the delicious meal while Janelle prattled
on about this and that – I tried to listen but my mind was consumed with my
inability to write and all of the consequences that I believed would logically
follow: divorce, homelessness, and me ending up face-down in a gutter
somewhere.
“Don't you think so?” I heard Janelle ask as my
thoughts returned to the dinner table.
“Don't I think what?”
“Have you heard a word I've said? Even when you do
spend time with me your mind is somewhere else.”
“I'm sorry. I'm just so preoccupied with my work.”
“Maybe you're trying too hard to come up with an idea.
Maybe you just need to take a break.”
“We tried that already.”
“I know something else we could try.” She squeezed my
hand and batted her eyelashes seductively.
“I don't think so.”
“Let's go see a movie.”
“No!”
“You don't have to yell at me.” Her eyes watered.
“I'm sorry, honey. It's just that I need to empty my
mind of all outside thoughts and words.” I got up and kissed her on the cheek.
“Dinner was delicious,” I said.
“Parker, you're not going back down there are you?”
“I have to write again. Our savings are dwindling and
we certainly won't be able to buy that villa in Austria that you've got your
eye on unless I have another bestseller.”
“But what's the point of having money and things if we
don't get to spend time together?”
“Janelle, it's only for a while, I promise -- until I
finish the book. I'll see you tomorrow evening, same time.” I leaned in to give
her another kiss but she turned her face silently away from me.
Desperate for a breakthrough, I'd taken to locking
myself away in our unfinished basement, only emerging around dinner to spend
the appointed two hour block of time with my wife. She wasn't happy with the
arrangement, but I pointed out to her that if I didn't write another book soon
she would leave me because of poverty and that assuaged her -- for a time.
My laptop was
set up on a card table in the middle of the cellar. I had no television or
radio, and I had my internet connection turned off - no creature comforts
whatsoever, with the exception of my comfortable computer chair -- the one
deviation from austerity I'd allowed myself in exile. An old coffee maker,
stained from years of use, sat on the metal shelves against the stairs, along
with a stack of styrofoam cups and four jars, one for sugar, one for powdered
creamer, one for ground coffee, and one for mini chocolate bars – for a quick
burst of energy and caffeine. The dehumidifier whirred constantly as it fought
a losing battle against the dampness and mold. A utility sink in the corner served
two purposes: water supply for the coffee maker and a urinal for me. I blacked
out the window wells so that I wouldn't be distracted by daylight or the rising
and setting of the sun.
The mounting pressures of impending financial ruin and
divorce were overwhelming. I drank cup
after cup of coffee. I offered up prayer after prayer to St. Francis de Sales,
the patron saint of writers. I even spent time in meditation. I tried exercises
where I wrote down every stray thought that entered my mind – now that was some
weird stuff! I paced back and forth across the uneven cement floor, dodging the
low-hanging metal pipes and brushing away the dangling cobwebs.
Then one day in a flash, as story kernels often do, it
hit me out of the blue. I was so excited to get to my laptop and start writing
that I smacked my forehead on one of the low-hanging pipes and fell backward,
slamming my head on the cold, unyielding slab. I saw stars spin around my head
like in a cartoon and then everything went black.
I had no idea how long I'd been lying there when I
came to but the back of my head was cold and damp from the concrete floor. I
rose to my knees, my head throbbing, and crawled over to my work station,
climbed into my chair, and began rapping away at the keys.
It was a brilliant idea. A man, living in his parents'
basement apartment, falls asleep one night and the rest of the book is that
character's dream: one long, mysterious, action-packed, fantasy-like adventure.
During the saga he becomes aware that he is dreaming and he begins to direct
his own dreams.
As the words and paragraphs and chapters flowed
through my hands to the computer like water from a burst dam, my headache
disappeared and my hope renewed. I wanted to run upstairs and tell Janelle the
exciting news but I was unable to move from the table. The story had a grip on
me like well-set cement.
In that first burst of inspiration the initial
parameters of the novel were clear. The main character's name would be Parker
and the story would be written from his point of view. The rest simply came to
me as I put down words in the machine.
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