Writer's Block Meets $20,000

“Who leaves someone over salt and pepper shakers?”

I caught her side-eye.

“Okay,” I conceded, “the price of my new salt and pepper shakers. He actually said if I was going to spend that kind of money on salt and pepper shakers, I should ‘bloody hell’ get a job. His words: bloody hell. Can you believe it? It used to be all romantic walks on the beach at sunset. Now it’s just ‘Get a job.’ I have a job!”

And there was the look.

“Ok, maybe not a job-job. One that pays, as such. Yet. But I’m a writer. Let him try spending hours staring at a blank screen and see what he comes up with. Not a blessed thing, I’m guessing. Bloody hell to himself, I say.” I grabbed an apple and chomped my frustration into its innocent skin.

“What about that story you were working on last week? The one about the writer who won a bunch of money in some contest?”

“Stuck.” I muttered. “How am I supposed to write with him always stomping around the place?”

I knew I could be a great writer – okay, maybe not great, but certainly good. I just needed quiet, privacy – a lovely 100-year-old stone house in Ireland overlooking the Atlantic, with an invisible servant who kept the teapot hot and a fresh supply of scones always at hand.

I dipped my fingers into the sugar bowl and sprinkled a few grains on the table, swirling them round in patterns like I used to do when I was six. “In the old days people had patrons to support them so they could focus on their art. What happened to all the patrons? That’s what I want to know.”

“Dead. That’s what happened to them. They’re dead. Like you will be someday, so you might want to get on with things. What’s-his-putz is no longer 'stomping round the house, disrupting your creative flow,' so enough with the whining. Write already.”

My alternate ego could be a real bitch. Also, she was right.

Well, fine, then. I grabbed my purse and stomped out the door. I might not have rent money, but my creative process needed an extra hot Cinnamon Dolce with whip cream and cinnamon sprinkles. Truly. They should be deductible as a business expense.

Unfortunately, to get to the Starbucks I had to walk past a bookstore. Dangerous waters, those. Of course, I went in. I mean, who doesn’t?? It’s a BOOKSTORE. Besides, I needed something productive to do while indulging my Starbucks addiction. It eased the guilt. Even if that meant feeding my other addiction. (Don’t judge.)

I lingered over the bestsellers table. Inhaling the scent. Savoring the texture of soft book covers and crisp pages. Diving into random paragraphs to poke amongst the wordsmithing treasures. I don’t understand people who don’t love books. They must be missing some essential gene.

I started the inevitable stack.

“Get a notebook.”

“I don’t need a notebook.”

“You don’t think you need a notebook. You’re wrong.”

“Why would I need a notebook?”

“Just get the damn thing already.”

There no point in arguing with her. She lives inside my head, after all, and will not shut up. Fine. I grabbed a little black Moleskine notebook and added it to the rest of the stack I couldn’t afford.

“Are you a writer?” the cashier asked, as she cheerily sorted my purchases, sinking me deeper in debt with every keystroke.

What – do we have our own special scent or something? 'Sweet undertones of creativity wafting up through musky desperation and aromatic angst?'

“Uh, yeah.” Sheez. I don’t even sound convinced.

“I figured. Writers always want these Moleskine notebooks. I had one old woman tell me they’re magic!” She laughed.

Hmm. Maybe my inner bitch knew more than I gave her credit for.

Soon – though never soon enough – I had my cinnamon dolce in hand. Pulling The Starless Sea from my bag of new purchases, I settled into a corner table to enjoy my favorite way to spend an afternoon. She wasn’t having it.

“Get the notebook out.”

“I’m reading now.”

“No, you’re writing now. Get the notebook.”

“I write on my laptop.”

“You edit on your laptop. Obsessively so.”

Okay, she had a point. Starting a story was always easy. Ideas bubbled up and flowed onto the screen like magic. It was in the middle that things went wonky.

Type a sentence.

Delete.

Retype it.

Delete again.

Reread from the beginning. (I saw that in a Masterclass once. When you get stuck, go back to the beginning. I went back to the beginning a lot.)

Make a few tweaks.

A few more.

Move this paragraph.

Move it back.

Re-read.

Sigh heavily.

Bang head on table.

Get up and pour a cup of coffee.

Drink the coffee while staring blankly at the screen.

Get up and pee.

Rinse. Repeat.

Check Facebook.

Play a couple games of FreeCell.

This was invariably when he-who-shall-no-longer-be-named would wander in and get all belligerent about me playing games ‘all day.’ I tried to explain that even Thomas Edison took breaks – that in fact he said breaks were essential to the creative process – which just provoked snarky comments. (Yeah. Use your imagination). These devolved into slammed doors and eventually the grand finale of the salt and pepper shakers. It wasn’t pretty.

In my defense, I’m a Libra Ascendant. Libras are good at starting things. Not so good at finishing them. I am a quintessential Libra Ascendant. I have a book about it at home. I really should read up on that--

“Stop. Focus.”

“Right. Ok. So why again am I writing in a notebook when I have a perfectly good laptop at home?”

“Because a notebook has no Edit Trap.”

“Come again?”

“In a notebook, you can’t obsessively move paragraphs back and forth. There is no rewriting. No do-overs. There’s only one direction in a notebook. Forward. All the way to The End.”

“Right.” My sarcasm was palpable. Inside my head, at least.

“You heard the cashier. ‘All the writers buy these notebooks.’ Why do you think that is, Einstein? You think none of them have laptops?”

I hated that she so often had a point. Even if she was me.

“Okay. We’ll write.” I dug the notebook out of the bag, but had to ask the barista for a pen. I never used a pen. I used my phone, like a normal person.

Turns out, this letting-the-flaws-stand-and-moving-right-on-past-them thing was tough for a perfectionist soul like me. Surprise, surprise. But eventually I did get into a kind of rhythm with it. It was weird. Disconcerting.

Exhilarating?

Turns out that old woman from the bookstore knew something real. These little blank notebooks? Abso-frickin-lutely magic. Four hours – truly, FOUR -- uninterrupted, laser-focused hours later, I closed the notebook. I had an ending. A real, hand-to-God ending. That actually worked. That I was excited about!

Even the editing that came later seemed to flow easier – less of a trap and more of a persnickety housekeeper. Those little blank notebooks became my life. We shared my morning coffee time, my sleepless nights, sunsets on the beach and rainy days in my kitchen. We were bonded. A thing. A couple.

“That story has set on your desk for weeks.”

“I’m aware.”

“You can’t get it published unless you send it to someone.’

“Really? I had no idea how that worked.” She was unaffected by my sarcasm, but it always made me feel better.

“Have you forgotten ‘The Rules’ Neil Gaiman talked about in his Masterclass?”

“I am working on something else right now. And YOU are interrupting.”

“You are procrastinating.”

“Well, what if I am? I finished it, didn’t I? What’s wrong with wanting to savor that accomplishment a bit before I invite a parade of painful rejections?”

“Rule #1: Write. Rule #2: Finish. Rule #3: Send it out. Remember?"

We both felt my eyes roll.

“Submit it in that contest. It’s a perfect fit for the topic, isn’t it?”

I gnawed on my pen and glanced at the flyer I’d pinned on the frig. $20,000 for a short story about a mysterious notebook.

“My notebook isn’t exactly mysterious. Maybe I need to add a guardian ghost or a treasure map or something…”.

“Maybe you need to add a stamp. On an envelope.”

Sometimes she was worse than what’s-his-putz.

I sighed. “I’m serious here.”

“What is more mysterious than the magickal quality of a blank notebook? It’s the landscape out of which stories grow. It’s the lamp you rub to release the genie. It’s magic and mystery incarnate!”

Wow. That was good. I should use that in my story.

“Stop.”

“Just that one quick change and then I’ll send it.”

“One quick change and you’ll fall back into the Edit Trap until the deadline has passed you by.”

She had a point. It was like she knew me. Us.

“Okay, already.” I grabbed a manilla envelope and jotted down the address from the contest flyer. With a deep breath, I picked up my one-and-only fully completed work and, averting my eyes so I wouldn’t get drawn into re-reading it, slipped it into the envelope.

It felt so mundane. Shouldn’t there be trumpets or scrolls of unfurled parchment or something to mark such a momentous occasion?

“Good. Now post office, then Starbucks. Don’t forget your notebook.”

Duh.

An aeon passed before the response showed up in my mailbox. I stopped breathing when I saw it. Here it was. The soul-crushing rejection I’d been dreading. I couldn’t open it. I just couldn’t. I tossed the envelope on the table, where it sat, glaring irritably at me, while I soothed the terrified beast that is my soul with an entire bag of Oreos and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

“You have to open it.”

“I know that.”

“So get on with it. Get it over with. Stop prolonging your misery.”

“Misery has levels, you know. Like mountain climbing. Some of us prefer slowly freezing to death at Base Camp over careening headfirst into an ice crevice.”

“Remember the rules? Write. Finish. Send it out. And then Send it out again.”

“See? Even you admit it’s going to be a soul-crushing rejection letter.”

“I am reminding you that whatever that letter says, it is one moment in the life of a writer, not the end of your writing career. J.K. Rowling got rejections. Stephen King got rejections. It’s part of being a writer. Someday you’ll be laughing about this moment, swapping rejection stories with your fellow published authors.”

Just once I’d like her to not know the perfect thing to say. Mediocrity loves company, you know.

I swallowed the last Oreo and, in a moment of sugar-fortified courage, tore open the envelope. A piece of paper floated down. A check. A CHECK. Rejection letters didn’t include checks. I stared at it.

“Well, silly. Pick it up!”

I did. Gingerly. Like it might dissolve into thin air if touched. $20,000. Right there, printed in a very official-looking font. 'Pay to the order of ….' $20,000. I tried to read the letter, but couldn’t get past the ‘Congratulations!’ in the first line. It’s hard to read when you’re simultaneously sobbing and hyperventilating. Take my word for it.

“You want all of those?”

“I do.”

“Looks like you’re planning to do a lot of writing!” he chuckled as he rang up the stack of little blank black notebooks.

“Absolutely.” I dug out the required number of Euros. I was slowly getting the hang of the currency.

“American?”

“I am. Just here for a few months. Writing.” I gestured to the stack of notebooks.

“Well, welcome to Ireland!”

Welcome, indeed. Welcome to the lovely 100-year-old stone house. Welcome to the teapot and scones that melted in my mouth. But most of all, welcome to me. A Writer and her notebooks.

“Damn straight.”