For Steve.
and Tami because she wanted me to share…
I held the pen in my left hand.
The hard polish of the stainless steel pressed against the callous on my middle finger. The pen, a gift from my youngest son, was suppose to survive extreme environments. According to David, it could withstand over two hundred degree heat and the ink wouldn’t evaporate. Also it would work at crushing sea depth or even in outer space.
It was the pens of all pens and when David presented it to me , all I could do was smile and accept it. I couldn’t, or wouldn’t tell my son, the one person who still believed my stupid dreams, the truth.
I couldn’t write.
Not a damn thing.
It seemed some time after the last unwanted novel, and before I started on the new one, a horrible feeling descended on my chest.
Much like a fish gasping for water in the air, I foundered against the blank page.
Nothing worked. Not taking a break; it lasted six months without a single word. No forcing myself to the page; only worked a day and then I developed a terrible rash.
I attempted to write notes and letters from the characters in the story, but every word, regardless of their intent, only emerged as gibberish. No one, no one, not even I, could understand the garbage piled on the page.
I tried to talk to Marta, my wife, about it. The flush of shame colored my cheeks when I spoke to her hushed tones about the problem. But she didn’t’ understand and only said, "How is that possible? You are always thinking of something new." Then turned away from me to keep tossing the salad.
The sickly fear fluttered like a caged bird for weeks before I dared to really give it a name.
Writer’s block.
Of course, I had confronted this before. I wasn’t a novice new to path. Obstacles always thrust themselves without warning and often severing toes and fingers in the process.
I used to be an expert surgeon. However this time, when the wall slammed upwards from my dirt trail, it sliced me in half, leaving my remains on either side as a quivering, whimpering mass.
I kept it secret. Tried to sew myself back together, but nothing seemed to stick.
David noticed the difference when he came to visit last week. "What is the new book going to be about, Dad?" He asked, eagerness real and bright in his voice. Sincerity sparkled around his face and he picked up the latest unpublished manuscript littering the desk.
"The publishing companies are so idiotic not to see how awesome these series is," David looks through the pages, and misses the shuttering panic on the my face.
I tried to change the subject, but David pressed on, wanting to know details of the upcoming addition to the story.
Flem threaten to choke me, but I told David just vague information I had planned to write before the chaos.
Then today David came into the kitchen, and gave me the pen in a silver box with a blue ribbon.
"I got you this, supposedly the astronauts use them." He gave me a slight smile, " You know so you can get in the mood. Writing about spaceships with a pen that can go into space."
I tried not to tear up, but it was hard and David placed a hand on my shoulder, "Dad, just write. I don’t care if it a grocery list. I will be here ready to read it when it is done."
Then he walked away, calling out to his mother and making some crack about the latest dish she had made.
I held the pen in his left hand.
It felt cool and sleek under my fingers. Definitely not something he would buy for himself. It felt heavy.
David saw me staring down at it and the table, transfixed. Without a word he walked to the junk drawer and pulled out a long piece of lined paper . Painted roses spilled down the side and the title "Things to Do" glared on the top.
He placed it directly under my nose and pushed my hand down on the page.
"I don’t know what to write." I said. Knowing my eyes now resembled a deer suck in a headlight.
"Write that, "he said with another smile. Who was the kid here? I wondered.
He stood next to me, expectantly.
"Honestly, this is ridiculous."
He crossed his arms and gave my hand, the pen and the page a pointed look.
I let out a shuddered breath, and placed the tip the page.
The ink hummed.
I wrote the words, "I don’t know…"
And my hand took off…
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