Writer's Block
As Abner Crowley walked through the lobby of the swanky Clipper Ship Hotel, he momentarily paused in front of the Mariner's Lounge and looked longingly at an empty bar stool. With a sigh of resignation, he continued to the conference room where Yvette Delacroix, one of Burgess Press's bestselling authors, was already seated at the dais. Yvette, overdressed as usual, wore a Versace evening gown, Jimmy Choo heels and a mink coat. Diamond jewelry glittered on her neck, earlobes, wrists, fingers and ankles. Every time he saw her, he was reminded of Eva Gabor on Green Acres, the Park Avenue socialite down on the farm.
Abner hated having to attend these writers' workshops.
Writers, my ass, he thought, wishing he had taken the detour to the Mariner's Lounge. Just a bunch of bored housewives who think they are qualified to write romance novels because they spend their waking hours engaged in sexual fantasies.
Unfortunately, the editors at Burgess Press were required to do their share of public relations work, so like it or not, he had to take his turn attending book signings, awards dinners, book release parties and the dreaded writers' workshops.
Abner was not the only person present who was uncomfortable. Kendall Marley felt as out of place as a Black Panther at a Ku Klux Klan rally. The other women all wrote romantic fiction. Their literary efforts involved orphaned governesses, abducted heiresses, lonely widows and strong-willed Southern belles. Kendall's short stories had little to do with undying love and unquenchable passion. Her plots dealt with murder and madness, evil and sin, demons and angels, guilt and retribution, and the unexplained and the supernatural.
From the podium, Yvette Delacroix called for attention.
"Ladies! Ladies, please! To start this workshop off, we're going to have you each read a sample of your work. Your fellow writers in the audience will then critique your writing, and Mr. Crowley and I will offer our expert advice. Please keep in mind that constructive criticism is an essential part of the writing process and that the purpose of this workshop is to sharpen your skills, expand your horizons and improve your craftsmanship."
What a crock of shit! Abner mused as Yvette took her seat.
Then he reached into his briefcase and took out a legal-sized pad and his Mont Blanc pen, ostensibly to take notes on the writings of the aspiring novelists. In reality, he would be seeing how many different words he could make using the thirteen letters in the word ENTERTAINMENT.
Enter. Taint. Meat. Rent.
One after another, the women rose and read excerpts from their manuscripts. Abner turned a deaf ear to the same old trite storylines: long-lost loves, arranged marriages, deflowered virgins, proud and defiant sex-starved heroines and handsome, virile, larger-than-life heroes who are willing to risk all in the name of love.
More bullshit, the bored editor thought, working on his list.
Train. Meter. Retain. Mint.
As Abner began his second column of words, Kendall Marley rose from her seat.
Tree. Main. Tent. Eerie.
"After listening to what the other ladies here have written," she said, "I don't know if my stories are appropriate for this workshop. To be honest, I'd prefer to write like Rod Serling than Danielle Steel or Barbara Cartland."
All eyes, including Abner's, turned to stare at Miss Marley. Yvette Delacroix, whose maudlin romantic fiction had long been attacked by serious critics, openly glared at her.
"Not that I've got anything against romance," the young woman hastily added. "I just doubt it exists outside of movies and novels."
From the frying pan into the fire. This poor woman certainly isn't going to make any friends in this crowd.
Yet Yvette should have agreed with Kendall's opinion of real-life romance since her own four marriages had ended in disaster.
Instead, the self-proclaimed Queen of Romance waved her diamond-studded hand and said, "Thank you for coming, anyway. Will the next lady ...."
"Wait a minute," Abner interrupted. "I'd like to hear what this young woman has written."
As the only man in the room, he was accorded a certain amount of respect. That was not too surprising since, except for the Rod Serling fan, he was surrounded by women who secretly longed to be ravished by dominating men.
Abner listened politely as the writer read a bizarre tale about Satan battling the Son of God. When she finished reading her work, Kendall sat down. The editor was speechless as were many of the women in the audience, but unlike the others, he was not shocked or offended by what the young woman had written. He did not find it blasphemous. Rather, he thought it was unique and thought-provoking.
Yvette smiled at Kendall ingratiatingly.
"Are you suggesting that neither God nor Satan can influence a man to do right or wrong? But, my dear, that goes directly against Christian teaching. If I were you, I'd refrain from writing such sacrilege."
"Oh, for Chrissake, Yvette," Abner said impatiently. "Who are you to preach Christian virtues? In your last book, your heroine was gang-banged by an entire crew of a pirate ship. Besides, didn't you claim that one of the purposes of this workshop was to expand horizons? I think even an established writer like you could learn a lot from this young woman."
Abner then turned to Kendall and winked conspiratorially. Neither one of them was going to win a popularity prize that day.
* * *
When the ordeal of the writers' workshop was finally behind him, Abner Crowley headed straight for the Mariner's Lounge. Normally, he was not much of a drinker, except on occasions when he had to endure aspiring authors who did not have the talent to write a clever sentence, much less an entire novel. As he walked up to the bar and ordered a Scotch on the rocks, he saw Kendall Marley walking toward him.
"Don't worry, Mr. Crowley," she said with a smile, "I'm not going to make a nuisance of myself. I just wanted to thank you for your kind words. I've never shared my stories with anyone. When Miss Delacroix accused me of sacrilege, my initial impulse was to run away and cry."
Abner had to admit that there was something about the young woman he liked. He changed his order to two strawberry daiquiris and asked her to join him.
"Yvette is an ass," he confided. "And worse, she's a terrible writer. Believe me, I know. I've had the misfortune of having to edit several of her books. Have you ever read anything she's written?"
Kendall shook her head.
"You aren't missing anything. Yvette's what I call a formula writer. She's written more than thirty books. Every one of them consists of exactly twelve chapters and, with little variation, she uses the same basic plot over and over again. Girl meets boy. Girl hates boy. Boy hates girl, yet is sexually attracted to her. Boy screws girl. Girl still hates boy yet desires him. And then comes the predictable ending: boy and girl admit their love and live happily ever after."
Kendall laughed softly.
"If her books are so bad, why does your company publish them?"
"For the same reason Hollywood keeps making sequels to Halloween, Friday the Thirteenth and Nightmare on Elm Street: they make money. But let's not talk about Yvette; I've had enough of her for one day. Frankly, I'd rather talk about you. Tell me, are all your stories so unconventional?"
Although she had been reluctant to discuss her work with him at first, Kendall soon found herself describing not only the plots of the stories she had already written but also those of the ones that were still in the planning stage.
"Where do you come up with all these ideas?" Abner asked, frankly amazed at the originality and diversity of her plots.
"Whenever I'm bored, my mind wanders, and I think of the strangest things sometimes. I guess I must lead a pretty boring life because I spend most of my time daydreaming."
"Is that why you want to become a writer?"
"You've got the wrong idea, Mr. Crowley. I don't want to be a writer—not a professional one, that is. Writing is just a hobby to me. You see, I always felt a strong need to create something. Over the years, I ran the whole gamut of arts and crafts: ceramics, needlepoint, crocheting .... In no time at all, I had more holiday decorations, afghans and wall hangings than I knew what to do with, and yet I was still unsatisfied. I didn't want to just follow someone else's pattern; I wanted to create something that was all my own."
"But if writing is nothing more than an outlet for your creative impulses, what made you attend the workshop today?"
"To sharpen my skills, expand my horizons and improve my craftsmanship," Kendall laughed, parroting Yvette Delacroix.
"I'm afraid I've got another appointment," Abner apologized, glancing at his watch. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Marley. If you should ever decide you do want to publish your work, just give me a call. I can't promise you anything, but I will take a look at it."
* * *
Humphrey Sloane, Burgess Press's cash cow, was the most conceited, ill-mannered and bad-tempered pain-in-the-ass Abner had ever met. Notwithstanding his miserable personality, with seven consecutive novels that made it to the top of The New York Times best seller list—five of which spawned major motion pictures—Sloane provided the largest single source of revenue for the publisher. In other words, Humphrey had the company right where he wanted it. If he said, "jump," Abner had damned well better jump high since his job depended on it.
As the MVP of the Burgess Press team, Humphrey wasn't required to go to the mountain; the mountain always went to him. Thus, whenever the editor needed to meet with the writer, he had to make the long drive to Humphrey's mountain cabin. When Abner rang the bell, the novelist himself answered. He was unshaven, his eyes were bloodshot and his clothes looked like they had been slept in.
"What's wrong, Humphrey? You're not ill, are you?"
"I'm in perfect health. I just haven't been getting enough sleep."
"Busy writing, I hope," the editor laughed. "We're eagerly awaiting your next novel."
It was as tactful a way as any to remind Sloane that the first installment of his book was overdue.
Humphrey's temper erupted like Mt. Vesuvius. Uttering a string of profanities, he kicked the coffee table over, which sent the magazines flying and the ashtray and candy dish smashing to the floor.
"No, I haven't been writing. Why the f—k do you think I haven't been able to sleep?" he screamed.
Abner held his tongue. Much as he would love to, he could not afford to tell the writer exactly what he should do the next time he had a sleepless night. Instead, he played the role of a sympathetic listener.
"It's nothing to get so upset about, Humphrey. You've had writer's block before. Just put the book aside, take a few days off and sail down to the islands."
"It's not a simple case of writer's block, you ass. I haven't even started the f—king book yet."
When Humphrey got angry, his knowledge of the English language seemed equal to that of a disgruntled longshoreman, consisting mostly of four-letter words.
"I can't think of a f—king thing to write about. I've been racking my f—king brains for weeks, and I haven't come up with a single idea. Not even a bad one. It's like my f—king creative juices have stopped flowing. The f—king well has gone dry. My f—king muse has at long last deserted me!"
Oh, brother! Abner thought, wondering how such a crude, obnoxious boor was able to write such sensitive and tasteful books. The last time I heard the "F" word that many times in one conversation, I was watching the movie Scarface.
"I sympathize with your dilemma, but what can I do about it?"
Sloane stared at Abner as if he were a species of harmful bacteria under a microscope.
"You can find me a f—king idea for my new book," he said between clenched teeth.
"And just how am I supposed to do that?"
"I don't know," he spat, "but unless you want me to go over to f—king Simon & Schuster, you damned well better find out."
Abner headed toward home but got no further than the nearest bar. His meeting with Humphrey had left him fuming. Of course, with a long drive ahead of him, he did not want to order anything too strong, nothing that might impair his driving ability or raise his blood alcohol level. He settled for a wine cooler. Then he tried to calm his rattled nerves by dreaming up new ideas for Sloane, all of them resulting in either the death or dismemberment of Burgess Press's number one author.
As the editor finished the last of his wine cooler, he spotted a woman sipping a strawberry daiquiri and was reminded of the young lady he had met at the last writers' workshop. Remembering the talented young writer, he began to smile. Humphrey Sloane was a man in desperate need of a fresh idea, and Kendall Marley was a woman who came up with ideas at about the same rate as a Detroit assembly line turned out automobiles. The least Abner could do was bring the two together.
Kendall, however, was reluctant to meet with Sloane.
"What does he want with me?" she asked warily.
"I discussed some of your ideas with him. I think he wants to talk to you about a possible collaboration."
A look of panic flitted across Kendall's face.
"Don't worry," Abner assured her. "You won't have to do any actual writing. Humphrey will probably want to take an outline of one of your ideas and turn it into a novel. For that, he'd be willing to pay you handsomely."
Since her job as a secretary for an insurance company paid just enough money for her to survive, Kendall gave serious consideration to the editor's proposition.
"I guess it wouldn't hurt to talk to Mr. Sloane."
"Before you do," Abner said, assuming a fatherly concern. "Let me warn you. He can sometimes be a bit coarse. His language may not always be suitable for a young lady's ears."
"I wasn't raised in a convent, Mr. Crowley. I've heard foul language before."
As it turned out, the warning proved to be unnecessary. For the first time since the editor had known him, Sloane behaved like a perfect gentleman. It almost made Abner ill to watch the sleazy bastard fawn over Kendall.
He must really be desperate to save his career, the editor thought cynically.
Desperate or not, Sloane managed to completely dazzle the young woman, who proved to be not so different from the foolish, romantic housewives who had flocked to Yvette Delacroix's workshop. In a surprisingly short time, Kendall Marley became the third Mrs. Humphrey Sloane.
* * *
Abner Crowley, now president of Burgess Communications, Inc., looked across the desk at Ron McDermott, the senior editor, who for the past two years, had the dubious honor of working with Humphrey Sloane. The bad-tempered writer was still one of the company's bestselling authors, although now he was far from being one of its major sources of revenue.
A lot had happened in the publishing world during the ten years that elapsed since Abner introduced Kendall Marley to her future husband, not the least of which was the emergence of the Internet. The former editor was quick to see the potential in online sales. Thanks to booksellers like Amazon and Barnes & Noble, Burgess sold hardcover and paperback books in record numbers. The company's stock soared. Abner was the one who recommended that the Board of Directors use a portion of their growing profits to diversify. They began producing electronic readers and publishing e-books, graphic novels and a line of educational children’s books.
Humphrey Sloane had not been idle in the past decade, either. He wrote four more bestsellers, a screenplay and a serialized novel that was selling very well on amazon.com. Both the critics and the readers felt his work was improving with age. In fact, his last two books were considered the best he had ever written. Obviously, meeting Kendall had done wonders for his writer's block. Yet here was young McDermott wanting to discuss the matter of Sloane with Abner personally.
"Well, what is it, Ron? Is the greedy bastard holding out for a large advance again?"
"No, Mr. Crowley. It has nothing to do with money. The truth is"—McDermott hesitated, obviously uncomfortable discussing the matter—"he's been drinking. Quite heavily I might add."
Abner chuckled.
"Is that all? Hell, he's been on the bottle as long as I've known him. He sobers up long enough to turn out a novel and then goes on a bender until he's ready to start the next one."
"Here's the problem," McDermott said, producing a stack of papers from his briefcase. "I read the first five chapters of the new book Sloane sent me."
"And?"
"See for yourself." McDermott handed him a printout of the first two chapters. The editor remained silent while Crowley read; then Ron politely asked, "Not his best work, is it?"
Abner threw the manuscript on his desk.
"It sucks, in plain English. My granddaughter is more articulate than that, and she's barely out of kindergarten."
While the days when keeping Sloane happy ranked among his major priorities were long gone, Crowley still liked things to run smoothly.
He told McDermott, "I'll pay Mr. Sloane a visit and find out how things are going. Meanwhile, why don't you get in touch with Yvette Delacroix and see if you can talk her into writing one last book before she retires."
McDermott looked green around the gills. It was obviously not an assignment he relished.
* * *
Humphrey Sloane no longer lived in a simple cabin in the mountains. After they were married, he and Kendall moved into a huge new home that came with every modern convenience. The few times Abner visited the house, he half-expected to be greeted by the Jetson's robotic maid, Rosie. As he approached the futuristic house, he stopped and announced his presence over the intercom. The gate opened, and he drove up the long driveway, with security cameras tracking him all the way.
"This is certainly a surprise," Humphrey said politely, only mildly slurring his words. "Just what the f—k are you doing here?"
That was more like the old Sloane that Abner knew and detested.
"Isn't it a bit early in the day to be bombed out of your mind, Humphrey?"
Sloane's only reply was a resounding belch.
"I see your manners haven't improved since we last spoke. I swear I don't know how a sweet girl like Kendall puts up with you."
"Sweet girl, my ass. You obviously don't know shit about that f—king bitch."
"Good God, Sloane, isn't it bad enough that you look like you've just crawled out of a gutter, must you talk like it, too?"
The inebriated writer went to the bar and poured himself a drink.
"I know you don't care what that stuff is doing to your liver, but do have any idea what it's done to your writing talent? Why don't you sober up and take another look at the garbage you sent us to be published?"
"So, the great man is back to being a lowly editor? Is that why you came here today? Good. I kind of like the idea of you going back to your old habit of kissing my ass."
Abner turned away with disgust.
"Do you really think you carry that much clout anymore?"
"I'm still one of the bestselling authors in the country. I can go to Simon & Schuster, Macmillan, Random House or Doubleday any time I feel like it. So, if I were you ...."
"Let's drop this farce for once and for all, shall we? You and I both know you haven't had an original idea for some time. If it weren't for Kendall ...."
Sloane threw himself at Abner, but in his drunken state, he was easily rebuffed.
"Don't ever mention her name to me again," he said, nearly in tears.
Abner had heard rumors about Kendall and the Australian actor who had appeared in the movie adaptation of one of Sloane's most recent novels, but he thought that they were just that: rumors. Apparently, he was wrong.
"She left you, did she? Threw you over for that Aussie chap? Is that why you're drinking so heavily and why your writing has deteriorated to the point of illiteracy?"
Humphrey's tears turned to riotous laughter. He laughed so hard his sides ached, and he almost wet his pants.
"Do you honestly believe I'd fall to pieces if she left me for another man? A common actor, at that. Why? I never loved her. I never felt a f—king thing for her."
"Then why did you marry her?"
"I can't explain it. When she opens her mouth to speak, she's one of the most boring women on earth. She's always so shy and tongue-tied and afraid to voice her opinions. But put a pen in her hand and it's like f—king Jekyll and Hyde. I don't think her mind is capable of functioning on a verbal level, but when it comes to writing, she's a f—king genius."
"That's why I wanted you to meet her in the first place. It was the perfect collaboration. She had the ideas, and you had the talent to weave them into a novel, but I don't see why you found it necessary to marry her."
Sloane went to the bar and poured himself another drink.
"Come with me. I want to show you something," Humphrey instructed.
Abner followed him down a winding staircase. As they walked, Sloane continued speaking.
"Right after we got back from our honeymoon, I went to work. I needed her help, so I asked her to write a paragraph here and a chapter there. We struggled through the first novel together. The next one was even worse. She outlined a fantastic plot, but when I began to develop the characters and write the dialogue, I found I just couldn't do it. Kendall began writing the book, and I did little more than edit her work. The other books, the screenplay and the serialized novel were all her work from start to finish."
"I have to admit I suspected much of your recent genius was due to Kendall's efforts, but I certainly didn't attribute all of it to her. So, what went wrong? Why do you hate her so much after she saved your career?"
Sloane took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door at the end of the stairs.
His arrogance returning, he stared at Abner, and replied, "She actually had the gall to suggest that I include the words 'based on a story by Kendall Sloane' beneath my name as the author!"
Having vented his outraged indignation, Humphrey then opened the door. In the basement room, Abner could see an old woman sitting in a wheelchair. Her fingers danced rapidly across the keyboard of an outdated personal computer. If she heard the door open and the two men enter the room, she gave no sign of it. Her hands never left the keys; her head never turned away from the monitor.
With mounting apprehension, Abner neared the frail, white-haired figure. He walked behind the computer to get a good look at the woman's face.
"Oh my God," he moaned when he saw the vacant stare in her eyes.
Contrary to the former editor’s horror, Humphrey seemed not to care about his wife’s welfare.
"Kendall. Can you hear me? It's Abner Crowley from Burgess. Do you remember me? We met at a writers' workshop. I later introduced you to Humphrey."
There was no reply, no glimmer of recognition on her stony face. But the hands remained hovered above the keyboard, and the fingers kept moving at a frantic pace as though in a desperate race against time.
He leaned forward and looked at the monitor to see what she was typing. A never-ending procession of random letters filled the screen. There were not even any spaces or carriage returns to separate one line of meaningless gibberish from another.
Abner turned his head away in sorrow and pity. His eyes then took in the stacks of floppy disks and the mountains of printed pages that filled the room.
"What is all this, Humphrey? What's going on here?"
"I just told you how unreasonable my wife became. She even threatened to stop writing if I didn't give her proper credit. Now I'm not the kind of man who can be bullied into anything, least of all by a dame. I knew if she became bored enough, she would write, so I locked her down here. After a few days of screaming and pounding on the door, she finally sat down in front of the computer."
"When was that?"
"About two years ago. She's been at it ever since. She even wrote my last novel down here. Okay, I admit I didn't read the stuff I sent McDermott this time."
Sloane drunkenly waved his hands at the piles of his wife's work.
"But I'll bet there are at least another ten or twelve good books here in all this mess. Just pick one."
"You poor dumb bastard," Abner said dully. "I don't know who I pity more: you or Kendall."
"Don't waste your pity on me. I got everything I need. Most of it is due to you, in fact. You were the one who found me the goose that lays the golden eggs."
Sloane raised his empty glass as if toasting his guest. Abner could feel his loathing and disgust begin to surface and with them the added burden of guilt. He had, after all, brought Kendall here to meet this monster, knowing full well that Sloane would use her ideas. True, he offered to pay her for them. The writer, to give the devil his due, was no thief. He was an arrogant, chauvinistic, megalomaniac who considered himself the equal of Hemmingway, Fitzgerald and probably even Shakespeare, but he was no thief.
Abner's attention turned back to the poor creature sitting behind the computer. For a brief moment, he saw not the withered woman who had aged far beyond her years but the shy young girl he had met at a writers' workshop at the Clipper Ship Hotel. He remembered how her blue eyes had sparkled with a peculiar radiance as she told him about her short stories.
After two strawberry daiquiris, she admitted giddily, "Sometimes I feel as if my brain is bursting with ideas, but I can't get them out fast enough."
Now Abner stood amidst visual proof of her incredible creativity and inexhaustible output. The thousands of pages she had written in the past two years were more than most authors could produce in an entire lifetime. Abner closed his eyes in grief and wondered at exactly what point Humphrey Sloane had finally managed to drain that incredible mind of hers dry.
Salem once aspired to be a romance novelist. But no one wanted to read about his love of Godiva chocolates.
image © actioncat.com
