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Sinclair Hemming, world renowned author and famous authority on the Wisslerites, had been away from his writing desk for 7 long years, having married a Wisslerite woman by the name of Autumn Miller. The marriage had been strong from the start and now, with three kids and one dog running around, he was ready to tackle his dream project; an epic romance set during the immediate aftermath of the Climate Wars. So, one bright morning, he sat down at his classic Boring electric typewriter and began to type, words flowing like inky water onto the shore of the page. However, after what seemed like an eternity (it was actually just 20 minutes) he found himself staring into a whirlpool of words with no rhyme or reason for their existence. Slamming his hands loudly against the desk he let loose with a string of expletives that would have made a private in Solarfleet blush with shame. He arose, went to the kitchen and drained the coffee pot of its last dregs. He downed the bitter brew and decided, what with his wife shopping and the kids at school, it was time for a walk. The dog, his beloved Bilbo, came to him, leash in teeth, ready to go for a walk and feel free.


There were so many synthoid caretakers walking dogs, pushing babies in strollers and helping senior citizen Gen-Xers, that he felt like an extra in an early 21st century sci-fi film. He enjoyed watching films on streaming services now, ever since 2057 and the passage of 'The Creators Bill of Rights'. Granted, as a Wisserlite he wasn't even supposed to own a television, but he was an odd duck among many, and he was a man who got inspiration from the past. So, he watched and enjoyed the movies and shows the way the creative teams behind them had intended. He stopped at a media booth and picked up 'Madison County Weekly', one of many such papers throughout the country. Most people got their news from the net and history was still being collected by the Library of Congress and the Smithsonian, among others. How all that digital code was any safer than paper he didn't know, but he hoped it would survive until the end of time.

"Sir, would you care to give to Saint Jude's?" A little holographic child stood before him, her large eyes full of the kind of heart-string pulling innocence that led to money being transferred from account to account. Sinclair smiled sadly at the hologram and walked on. Wisslerites carry neither plastic nor phone, so unless there was a way to drop physical money into the child's "hand" he'd have to let her go without the donation he sorely wished he could give. He stood, meditating on the current state of affairs, when Bilbo pulled at the leash. Sinclair snapped out of his reverie and onward they went. They passed by Leeson's Department Store and a Hook's Drugs. He stepped into the store and bought himself a number seek book. He'd been into active meditation, either with coloring or simple puzzles, since his days visiting his first girlfriend at her store, 'The Crystal Angel', in the Kelsey Mall. She'd been a soft butch by the name of Anne and he'd been madly in love. However, he'd also been a bit clingy and this had caused her to shy away from his love and affection. He still meditated, an almost ethereal way for him to feel connected to her, even if love between them was not to be.


When Sinclair returned home he staked Bilbo out by his doghouse and he himself headed back to his Boring typewriter. He didn't even attempt to begin typing as he just could not get his thoughts to congeal into a cohesive whole. He stood, stretched and took 7 deep, cleansing breaths. Why was nothing coming? He felt like hell, like a man who was impotent in the creative department. He needed to meditate and so, grabbing his new book of puzzles, he headed to the porch. Sitting in his rocker, surrounded by the sounds of nature, Sinclair pondered where he stood in his life. His first love had been poetry, and maybe that was it; go back to the well and drink again from his first love. He finished the puzzle he was doing, took it back into the house and reemerged with his composition notebook and a freshly sharpened pencil. He used to write lyric poems, odes to memories most precious. Now, he wanted to tackle something different, something that was a cross between free and formal verse. So, he began to jot down ideas as they appeared in his thoughts, ideas that encompassed his whole life experience. And finally, after 7 years of creative drought, the rains began to pour.


"Autumn, I am a changed man." Autumn's smile made him laugh, as her smiles always did.

"A changed man? How?"

"I'm no longer a novelist! I am a poet!" Autumn's green eyes flashed joy.

"A poet? Like from years ago?"

"Yes, and no. I want to write a kind of free slash formal verse, drawing on my experiences and feelings. The poems will be the canvas on which I paint with my words." And with these words Sinclair left the company of his wife to write what was on his heart.


Thirty days later Sinclair Hemming looked on with awe as his wife finished compiling his poems into a full-on manuscript. She smiled with glee as his work slowly grew to include 100 poems and the dedication, the dedication that brought warmth to her heart and tears to her eyes.


"When we first got together, our hearts beat as one, and now you are my partner in all I say and do. And this book of poetry, written from my heart, is dedicated to you, babe, my lover and my muse."

The book went on sale in both physical and digital formats and was soon the biggest seller of Sinclair Hemming's career. From that day forward, Sinclair was secure in who he was, where he stood and in writing the Hemming way.

June 19, 2020 01:16

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1 comment

Cathy Deal
23:42 Jun 25, 2020

I liked how you captured the author's transition from novelist to poet. He had trapped himself to writing one way. Once he let himself write the poetry again it just flowed. Good work.


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