Writer’s Block by James C. Clar

Writer’s Block by James C. Clar

“The faster I write the better my output. If I’m going slow, I’m in trouble.
It means I’m pushing the words instead of being pulled by them.” 
~ Raymond Chandler

“Hello, doll,” I said.

I knew I was in trouble when she didn’t respond. Mel was gorgeous today – jaw dropping, drop dead, feel it in your loins – gorgeous. But she was a force with which to be reckoned when she was mad. No, that’s not quite right; when she was angry, she was the ur-Bitch from whom all others derived their power. Pardon the indelicate language, but it was true.

And right now, she was angry. 

I had been sitting on the lanai of my bungalow at the end of Kalakaua where it turns into Coconut Avenue. I was supposed to be writing. Instead, I’d become entranced by the Matson liner, Lurline, making its way east through the sun-bright waters of the Pacific. The vessel eventually rounded Diamond Head and disappeared. No excuse now, I thought. Or, rather, I’d need to find another excuse. Lately, I’d been finding lots of excuses.

It was then that I suddenly caught the scent of jasmine, and of something muskier, headier. When I turned back around and faced the blank white sheet in my trusty Underwood, she had pulled up a chair and was sitting across from me at my battered old desk. I had been hoping she’d drop by. It had been a while. Some warning would have been nice, though, especially since she was in such a foul mood.

She brushed back her lustrous black hair with a practiced gesture and, almost in the same movement, lit a cigarette. God knows where she acquired the habit. She exhaled a cloud of wispy smoke in my direction. It swirled in a sensuous arabesque as it lingered and, eventually, dissipated slowly in the light trade winds … like the idea for my next novel. She crossed her legs and, as she did so, I heard the soft susurration of silk.

“Don’t be sore, baby,” I crooned in my most placatory tone. “You can see I’m working, can’t you?”

“What I see,” she said in a voice that had the cold, breath-taking clarity of water cascading over the cliff tops of the Na Pali Coast, “is a has-been.” She paused for dramatic effect. She was good at dramatic effect.

“You said moving to Hawaii would reinvigorate your career. A series featuring a hardboiled detective working the ‘mean streets’ of Honolulu was guaranteed to sell. Well, from where I sit, you’ve stalled out completely. You can’t sell what you haven’t written, Ray, and I’m losing my patience.”

“Come on, Mel. You know I’ve sold a couple of short stories. As far as the novels are concerned, well, I’m trying.”

She shifted her weight and took another drag on her cigarette. This time the smoke, illumined by the late-afternoon sun, formed a golden halo around her exquisite head. I stared at her well-formed calves as she dangled her foot. Her tropical print blouse clung suggestively.

“Losers talk about ‘trying’ Ray. Winners produce. I’m beginning to think I made a bad business decision here. Maybe it’s time to cut my losses. I’ve been around too long to keep my wagon hitched to a gelding. There are plenty of stallions out there who’d be happy to take a ride with me.”

“Hey,” I said. “There’s no reason to hit below the belt.” I put everything I had into it … injured pride plus a hint of genuine sadness.

“You know better than to try that with me.” Her smile could have frozen the water in a Jacuzzi.

 “You know the drill, Ray. I come and go as I please. I’m not obligated to you in any way. Maybe that’s the problem. You’ve begun to take me for granted. I don’t like being taken for granted.”

There was nothing there for me, so I let it pass. I sat in silence for a few moments. Along with the soft rustle of palms and the pulsation of the waves crashing against the shore, I heard distant laughter from families cooking out in a nearby park.

Without thinking, I reached into my bottom drawer and pulled out my office bottle. I poured myself a shot and felt the warm rush spread as my blood vessels dilated. If I kept drinking, her words might not sting so much.

“That’s it,” Mel intoned with finality. “You’ve got a lot of nerve trotting out a tired old cliché like that. Please! If that’s all you have to offer there’s no use continuing our little discussion.”

“You’re right,” I said with more courage than I really had. “Why don’t you and that perky little ‘tush of yours take a hike? Who needs you? There are plenty of other fish in the ocean. Drift, blow, dust off, beat it, scram, shove off, take a powder, get out of Dodge.” The cliché’s rolled like billiard balls on soft green felt.

I wasn’t particularly choleric by nature, but I was working myself up into a rage. It was her smugness that was getting to me.

I stood up and walked to the railing of the lanai and looked out at the glittering ocean. Suddenly, I felt better than I had in weeks. It was as though I’d been possessed by some eldritch power.

“And another thing,” I snapped, eyes fixed on the ocean, “You’re supposed to inspire … not demean hell out of me. You know what they say, ‘behind every successful man …’?” I turned to deliver the coup de grâce, but, by then, she was gone. It didn’t matter. I had run out of banalities.

Oh, she was fickle, my Melpomène, fickle. But old Mel knew what she was doing. You didn’t last in her business for thousands of years without learning a few tricks, and she’d done the trick. I poured myself another belt and sat down at my typewriter. The words began to flow. For the first time in months, I was actually writing.

* * * * The End * * * *
Copyright James C. Clar 2024