Killing Writer's Block

I decided to become a writer during the first episode of The Waltons. In fact, in my young mind, I was John-boy Walton. Decades have passed, but John-boy wanders through my psyche like a dream that never ends.

In the 1970s I saw myself as a writer of beautiful novels in a style that comingled the literary virtues of my favorite authors—Ernest Hemmingway, Arthur Conan Doyle, JRR Tolkien, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. I have added many more favorites to that list, but back then those men were my shining stars.

Today, finally, I’m in the middle of writing a novel, my first, after years as a copywriter and then an editor. I have about two hundred pages on paper but somehow, I cannot settle on a good opening scene or, for that matter, a good ending. I have only this big hunk in the middle, and it lays around in my computer like a dead trout waiting to be filleted and eaten. And the longer that fish lays in there, the more it stinks.

My wife comes downstairs, “What are you doing,” she asks, sounding annoyed. I know she wants me to vacuum the living room before our next-door neighbor shows up for a couple of Fat Tires and stays through dinner. We’re having fancy-pants chicken tonight, his favorite.

I blurt, “I’m trying to write, and I have a near-fatal case of writer’s block.”

She snorts and sucks in a deep breath,

Before she speaks, I mutter, “Marcy, sweetheart, do you mind giving me a couple minutes?”

“Don't sweetheart me. I have a bad case of lazy-ass husband, and I do mind. Every time I turn around, you are down here pounding on that damn keyboard. There’s work to do upstairs.”

“Okay,” I said, nicely. “I won’t be long.”

“Please…just get your backside up and help me!”

Before I pulled the Hoover out of the closet, I fixed a scotch and soda, Hemingway’s libation of choice. Holding the cocktail in one hand and pushing the vacuum cleaner with the other, I sashayed around the room. It was my way of rebelling against Marcy's Hitleresque attitude.

When I finished my simple but incredibly significant chore, I rolled up the electrical cord and placed the Hoover in the corner so my neighbor would see it. I wanted him to know that, because my wife thinks he’s so frickin’ important, someone vacuumed the carpet. I’d tell him during a dinner tête-à-tête that it was I who did that essential bit of cleaning.

Damnation, I can be so petty. But shit, Marcy doesn’t understand what it takes to be a writer. When I sit in front of my computer and nothing clicks, my brain goes dark as a moonless night and my fingers get stiff as icicles. She thinks writing time is playtime. Doesn’t she notice the little beads of blood popping out on my forehead?

Tomorrow morning, I am getting out of this house to clear my head.

Over two soft-boiled eggs and a slice of buttered toast, I read the headlines in our weekly paper, a big murder trial is commencing today at 9:00 am. That sounds interesting, Murder trials are rare in these parts, so when one happens it’s on the front page. I ask Google—are murder trials open to the public?

Google: In the United States, criminal trials are generally open to the public, with few exceptions. 

That could be entertaining, and surely to God, a scandalous murder trial will get my brain off this cussed writer’s block. Afterward, I’ll come home refreshed and, hopefully, my writer’s block will disappear like a fart in the wind. And, my wife, bless her heart, will be at work and out of my hair for at least four hours. “Hallelujah and pass the tambourines,” I hollered. Instinctively, I swiveled left and right to see if she was within earshot.

*  *  *

I entered the courtroom with its fluorescent lights buzzing and the scent of something like Juicy Fruit gum hanging in the air. Within minutes the judge made her entrance, and everyone had to stand. Shortly after that, the clerk rose from her desk and introduced the trial. In a flat, robotic voice she spoke, reading from a clipboard held high and blocking her face. “March 15th, 2023. In the People v. William ‘Billy Bob’ McDonald, we will hear testimonies on the gruesome death of the victim, twenty-two-year-old Maria Angel, whose body was discovered at the bottom of Eagles Well in Moors Valley on January 2, of this year.”

There was absolute silence in the courtroom. If a pin dropped, it would sound like a Coke bottle hitting the tile floor.

Mr. Zebadee Copeland, the prosecuting attorney, stood to make his opening remarks. He put his fist up to his mouth and discreetly cleared his throat. In a syrupy smooth southern accent, he began to speak:

“While to my opponent, I know she will exert all her powerful talents in favor of the prisoner. As a public prosecutor, I offer you, the jury, in its proper order, all the testimony the case affords for a guilty verdict.”

"Billy Bob McDonald, the man in custody," the prosecutor pointed directly at the sandy-haired young man, "stands accused of the murder of Maria Angel on the frigid, bone-rattling evening of December 22, 2022. Maria, until her fateful encounter with the defendant, was a young woman of virtue and modesty, characterized by a cheerful disposition and lively manners despite her delicate constitution. It is crucial for you to grasp that we intend to demonstrate how the defendant, with his seemingly amiable demeanor, managed to win her affection. Tragically, her virtue succumbed to Mr. Copland’s charm. Following an extended period of intimate conversations, he enticed her from the warmth of her home on that cold, dark night under the guise of marriage, only to transport her to a well on the outskirts of our city where he committed the heinous act of murder." Mr. Copeland paused, letting the weight of his words settle on the jury. "No wonder, ladies and gentlemen, my mind recoils at this grim notion, necessitating a moment to compose itself.”

"Mr. McDonald, in that very place and time, maliciously, deliberately, and with premeditation, launched a brutal assault on Maria Angel. He intentionally struck, beat, and kicked her, targeting her head, breast, back, belly, sides, and other parts of her body. This vicious onslaught resulted in numerous fatal blows, wounds, and bruises, leading to Maria Angel's untimely demise. Following this horrific act, he callously hoisted Maria’s lifeless body and discarded it down the well, treating her as if she were a broken doll."

*  *  *

When he finished, I sat dumbstruck, almost numb. Never had I heard such artful language, spoken with such eloquence. His words, his cadence, his descriptions so precise and visual. Perhaps even I can write like that. I felt the frozen parts of my brain begin to thaw. The power in Mr. Copeland’s opening statement overwhelmed me and left me almost speechless. Hell, if I was on the jury, I would have convicted Mr. McDonald then and there.

Mr. Copeland calls his first witness, the owner of the boarding house and landlord of Maria Angel. An elderly woman, Margaret Jenkins, slowly walks to the witness stand. Ms. Jenkins proceeds to tell the jury that she witnessed Maria leave the house at or around 8:00 pm on the night in question and in the company of Billy Bob McDonald. The two of them got into his truck and drove south in the direction of Moors Valley.

Over the next hour, Mr. Copeland called several more witnesses, each one testifying to the unblemished character of Maria Angel or detailing the sketchy and troubled past of Billy Bob McDonald.

After each witness, the defense attorney, a tall, sharply dressed woman, with glossy black hair tied tight behind her head, would cross-examine. But she was unable to bring into serious doubt any of their testimonies.

Finally, Zebadee Copeland presented an eyewitness, a neighbor, who saw Mr. McDonald return to his home and get out of his truck at or about 9:30 pm, alone. He noticed that his shoes and pants were wet and soiled, and a coat was slung over his shoulder.

The defense attorney cross-examined this witness and was able to draw out that it was exceptionally dark that night as there was no moon. She then probed how the witness could say definitively that Mr. McDonald’s clothes were soiled. To this line of questioning, the witness had no satisfactory answer.

She then asked point blank, "To be clear, sir, you did not witness Mr. McDonald strike, harm, or in some way force Maria Angel into that well." She paused a long moment and looked at the jury. “Sir, is that correct?” she said.

The witness answered, “That is correct.”

*  *  *

The judge calls for a twenty-minute recess.

Shortly after we returned and repeated the all-stand routine, Ms. Isabella Ingram, the defense attorney, stood face-to-face with the twelve men and women sitting attentively in the jury box.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I stand before you today as the voice of reason and justice, tasked with the defense of Billy Bob McDonald, a young man thrust into the shadows of a life-threatening accusation. In this courtroom, we are not merely arbiters of a tragic narrative; we are seekers of truth and fairness and guardians of all the principles upon which our legal system is built. I hope you agree with that premise." Ms. Ingram paused and scanned the jurors, looking each one in the eyes.

"Much like my esteemed counterpart, Mr. Zebadee Copland, I recognize the gravity of the events surrounding the untimely demise of Maria Angel. It is an unfortunate reality that we find ourselves entangled in this tale of sorrow and loss. However, as we launch on this legal journey together, I implore you to embrace a critical perspective, one that allows for the exploration of nuanced truths rather than succumbing to the temptation to adopt a simple narrative that has been carefully shaped and outfitted by the prosecution to convince you, the jury, of one thing—Mr. McDonald’s guilt. And using circumstantial evidence to conceal facts or facets that run counter to his narrative."

"Billy Bob McDonald, the young man whose fate rests in your hands, vehemently denies the charges leveled against him. While the prosecutor paints a vivid picture of a heinous crime, we must remember the essence of our legal system: the presumption of innocence until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt."

"We will present evidence and testimonies that challenge the prosecution's narrative, shedding light on alternative interpretations and potential motives that may have been overlooked. Maria Angel's tragic death deserves justice, but justice demands a thorough examination of all relevant facets, no matter how small, of this case."

"This afternoon you will hear a compelling story of a twenty-two-year-old man, a very decent young person, who finds himself ensnared in circumstances completely out of his control. The defense will unravel a narrative that delves into the complexities of human relationships, seeking to expose the truth that may not be as straightforward as it initially seems."

"As we navigate through the intricacies of this trial, I urge you, the jury, to please keep an open mind and uphold the noble principles that form the foundation of our legal system. Together, let us strive for a verdict grounded in truth and fairness, and not in circumstantial evidence, thus ensuring that justice prevails for both Maria Angel and Billy Bob McDonald."

*  *  *

Again, the words resonated mightily in my soul. I was moved by Isabella Ingram’s brilliant words and how convincingly she articulated the request to keep our minds open. Surely, I can keep an open mind, even after hearing Zebadee Copland set such a dark and chilling stage. And, of course, I do believe everyone is innocent until proven guilty. With that thought, I convicted myself for jumping so fast to a guilty verdict. Let me hear all the evidence.

Upon completion of her opening remarks, she calls her first witness, Mr. Roy J Hobbs. He is the owner of the hardware store and Billy Bob’s employer. For the past twenty years, he's acted as his guardian. Billy Bob’s father was killed in a gold mining accident when Billy Bob was five. His mother passed when Billy Bob was only three months old. Mr. Hobbs testified to Billy Bob's excellent work habits, natural honesty, and dependability. Billy Bob still lives with Mr. Hobbs and, when Billy Bob got home that dreadful night, Mr. Hobbs was there to greet him. This is his testimony under oath.

Mr. Hobbs, can you tell the jury what time Billy Bob got home.

I reckon about 9:30

Were his shoes and pants soiled with mud?

Yes, they were.

Do you know if Billy Bob was at Moors Well?

Yes, he was.

Did Billy Bob tell you what happened at the well?

Yes, he did.

Can you tell the court what he told you?

Sure. Billy Bob and Maria went together to the well. He was planning to give her a ring that night. Mr. Hobbs held up a small golden ring for the jury to see. He was planning to propose at the well. Mr. Hobbs paused and rubbed his eyes.

Please go on Mr. Hobbs

A good hour before he left the house to pick up Ms. Angel, he told me he was having second thoughts. He felt he needed to save more money to afford a place of his own.

And…

Well, we talked for a good while, mostly I listened. Finally, he asked if I’d hold onto the ring, which had belonged to his own mother. After our talk, he decided to tell Maria of his decision to put off the marriage for another year.

Could you tell us how Mr. McDonald felt about that decision?

Mr. Hobbs sniffled. Yes, he felt bad. But he believed he was making the right decision.

Anything else.

Yeah, the boy’s eyes glistened with tears as he walked out my door.

One last question, Mr. Hobbs, do you believe that Billy Bob murdered Maria Angel?

Absolutely not, the boy loves that girl like she is, or was, a living angel.

Mr. Copeland cross-examined Mr. Hobbs but was unable to cast a shred of doubt on his testimony.

Ms. Ingram then called Billy Bob McDonald to the stand.

Can you tell the court what happened that night, she asked.

Billy Bob took a breath, his voice quivering, his eyes downcast. “Ma’am, yes I can.”

Can you be specific?

I can be specific. We drove to the well as planned and I told Maria that I wanted to wait a while longer before getting married. She started to cry.

What did she do next?

She jumped out of the car and ran to the well, pulled off her coat, and threw it down the hole. The wind was a blowin’ and it was biting cold so I came up to her and put my coat around her shoulders, then she tried to throw it down the well too. I stopped her.

Did you have to hit or accost her to stop her from throwing your coat in the well?

No. I just grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the well. She slipped and fell. I can’t afford to buy a new coat.

What happened then?

You know that old well is ‘bout a mile from her house on the edge of a fallow cornfield. Maria started running down the road screaming that she couldn’t trust me, and hated me. I followed her nearly a hundred yards, but she wouldn’t stop. So, I went and got in my truck, drove to where I thought I’d catch up with her but Maria was nowhere to be seen. Slowly I drove into town looking right and left hoping to spot her. It’s mostly bramble bushes on either side of the road so I thought she’d stay on the pavement. But she warn’t nowhere. I stopped in front of her boarding house and waited nearly an hour for her to show but she never did.

What did you do then?

What could I do? I went home. I figured she'd gone to one of her friend’s houses for the night. I’d come see her in the morning.

Did you go over to the boarding house the next day?

Yes, about 10:00. Mrs. Jenkins told me she never came home and folks were out lookin’ for her.

When did you learn she was found at the bottom of the well?

When everyone else did. A kid was playing at the well and dropped a rope down the hole and fished out a coat and one shoe. Here, Billy Bob closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Then the police came and pulled Maria out of the well.

Mr. McDonald, what do you think happened to Maria that night?

I'm almost sure she jumped in herself.

She wanted to kill herself and committed suicide.

That’s what I think.

*  *  *

On my way home, I was nauseous and stopped to vomit in the toilet at the Shell station. Thinking that my writer’s block might be gone, but damn sure that I was a different writer, a different man, than the one who walked into that courtroom. I don’t want to sit through tomorrow's session. I don't care about the verdict anymore.

It was dark outside when the garage door opened. I heard Marcy walk in. From my lair in the basement, I came upstairs into the warmth of our kitchen and gave her a hug.

“How was your day, John-boy?” she asked with a sly grin.

My face blank, eyes steady, I said, “It was life-changing.”