I think about the stars a lot, and I probably always will, but that probably has more to do with my own neurosis than anything. Then again, I think laying on your back and staring into space is one of the more cathartic experiences one can put themselves through for any amount of spiritual cleansing. It simply lets you put your own tiny life into perspective. It’s also a good chance to reflect on the experiences and mistakes you put everybody in your life through just so you could get by from time to time.
I stare at the stars a lot because a couple of space travelers came and took part of my brain, and now I’m left floating here on Earth without an imaginative thought in my brain.
I wrote a book once. It was called Strike Out Number One, and it was a profound novel about the heart of a man in trouble. It may have been self-published but it took off with the indie collectors. Eighteen-year-old kids really seem to like futility and the unending parallels to their own lives that the story seemed to elicit. Don’t believe me? I held one book signing and the crowd went out the door and down the block. It was every writer’s dream, but I couldn’t stop sweating and the questions these kids asked me were insane.
“Do you think you could focus more on the internal stagnation of the lead character’s psychosis next time? That would help me with my problem.”
“Yea, sure…”
That was the last book I wrote. Circumstances prevailed and caused me to lose my creative control. I was hit so hard with writer’s block that I pissed myself and checked into an emergency room downtown. The doctor told me it was a panic attack. I lied and told him it was writer’s block. He called me everything but a liar, but was nice enough to prescribe me some pills and sleep. I still had writer’s block and I couldn’t sleep. Doctors can be so full of shit sometimes.
Sometime after, as I peddled around the writer’s workshops and retreats trying to get my mind back, I met an author who said he dealt with writer’s block for 36 years. He almost seemed proud, like his crowning achievement was being struck dumb with lack of ideas. He told me it was hard to come up with an original idea because the market was saturated in crap. Though I’ve heard this a thousand times, I couldn’t help but agree with him, but that also caused me to think about how complainy the two of us looked sitting there discussing terrible markets for fiction and novels. Me in my brown-stained coat, and he on his Amigo.
If I was skeptical, the author told me, then maybe I should go look at the supermarket bookshelves, because they always had titles like The Lustful Bride, Sin of the Skin, Touch Her Romance, and The Flame Still Burns. All of these books deal with the same thing, he said. For example, Sin of the Skin dealt with forbidden groping, while The Flame Within dealt with a girl lusting after a man’s ample endowment. The covers featured shredded shirts and shredded men holding women forcefully while they planted a lustful kiss on their lips. Bodices were pronounced, pants were erect.
“It amazes me,” said this author, “women say they don’t care about the size of a man’s penis, but their literature is all cocks and balls.”
This made me uncomfortable and so I started scooting away a little bit, but he pressed the “forward” handlebar lever on his Amigo and the damn thing got closer to me. Just a slight whirring, and there he was mere inches from my face. “Hey, kid,” he added. “If you’ve got writer’s block, go write a western about a strapping young man who’s after a girl’s bottom—that’ll net you a profit. If you can’t do that, maybe try writing some smut sometime, maybe about an alien who likes city girls.”
He eyed me in such a way that the only conclusion I could draw from his expression was that I was to be the one to write this smut–and I felt he was the only one buying.
“I’ll give it a thought,” I replied, sliding farther away even as the Amigo inched after me.
“Here,” he said, grabbing my arm. “Take my card,” and passed me a business card with blurry text on the front. “If you give it a shot, send the manuscript my way.” His eyebrows wiggled. He shot forward one last time, “If the girls in your story work the night shift at a laundromat in Tulsa, Oklahoma, I’ll pay extra. Brunette. Late 20s. Goes by Jess.” His head tilted toward me a little in a sorrowful nod. “I would, but you know my condition–36 years is an awful long time to have these fantasies rolling around in my head.”
Up against the armrest of the bench with a startled look on my face, I nodded slowly and backed away maintaining direct eye contact.
He had his hands out, palms up, and seemed to be shrugging a sort of, “Can you blame me?” gesture.
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