The Greatest Story Never Told

Prologue

I have an apology to make to all writers, both living and those beyond the veil:

I’m afraid that I’m the cause of Writer’s Block.

Yes, I brought about that most wretched of conditions, most dreadful of all curses for a bard to suffer.

I’m sorry.

How? A curious (or furious) writer might ask.

It all started as a promising, sensational idea. Then it became a curse: a story that can’t be told. In my view, a fate far worse than Writer’s Block.

What story?

THE story, that’s what.

The greatest singular work in the history of writing; an idea more precious than the rarest gems, but it refused to be written.

It can’t be told because I’m convinced my genius story was a writer’s curse in disguise.

Alas, the curse of Writer’s Block was born, preventing writers from even being able to begin, locking away great ideas for eternity.

I had it.

Lost it.

I had it again, and it nearly killed me. Then it put me in the proverbial—and especially literal—nuthouse.

So here I sit, rotting away in an isolated cell, wrapped in swaddling clothes—no, make that a straitjacket—staring at stained walls caked with a revolting patina of unmentionable splatterings disgusting enough to make Jackson Pollack curl up in the fetal position.

Admittedly, some of the ‘art’ may be mine. I can’t remember anymore.

What can I remember?

Too much.

Enough to torment me each day with a cruel relentlessness and repetitive torture reminiscent of Sisyphus’s boulder and Prometheus’s eagle.

See for yourself:

1

The Burden of Inspiration

Loud noises wake some people up; full bladders wake others.

Great ideas rouse writers.

One night, the mother of all ideas croqueted my head off my pillow.

I looked at the clock: 2:32 AM.

I couldn’t believe how good my idea was, and being a writer, it was like I had been gifted a lottery ticket of a vision that would lead me to fame and fortune. It was quite simply the greatest story ever written.

I am doomed to remember that much repeatedly, a fate far worse to endure than being unable to conjure up anything.

In a feverish blur, I fleshed out the idea in less than five minutes. I was practically panting with drool frothing on the corners of my mouth. And, very much awake, I double-checked my concept.

Could it truly be as special as my first estimation?

It was! And more. Better than a dream.

All smiles, I clapped out loud and nearly shouted, but didn’t want to wake my snoozing household.

This idea would set my family up for life. Generations of my family. This would be one of the greatest novels ever written, a classic. Its potential was unlimited.

I saw a delightfully clear vision of success: the top agents would flock to me like devoted fans, begging to represent such a singular mind, with a legendary bidding war to follow.

Exhausted but excited with the greatest hope I’ve ever had as a writer, I placed my pen on my lucky “inspiration pad” where the story resided, patting the page as if petting my favorite pet, and went back to bed, loathing sleep for the urgency to return to my masterpiece to be.

I barely slept, but enough to feel refreshed. Not even bothering to brush my teeth, or get dressed, I stampeded toward my writing pad, ready to delve into the idea, revise, and transfer to my laptop computer as a first rough draft already lined up for an editor.

But alas, there was no writing pad.

Not. Anywhere.

I frantically searched every corner of the house again.

And again.

And AGAIN.

I often pace when inspired by exciting ideas; clearly, I picked up the pad and set it down somewhere my mind had not registered.

My second, third, and fourth pass through the house proved futile.

My slight puddle of panic soon turned into a turbulent ocean of fear with thunderous whitecaps.

Did I move it? Did I put it in a “special” place only to stupidly forget said “special” place?

I scoured our house all morning like a raving lunatic, inspecting every nook and crevice.

I shook my wife awake like there was a fire, and when I told her what had happened, she merely scowled at me, emitted a great groan, and rolled over.

When I pulled my spouse’s hair and started a mini-skirmish and was nearly beaten to death with a beefy pillow and clawed within an inch of my life, finally, she relented to join my search party.

We could not find it. The writing pad was gone as if it had been banished to an alternate universe.

By the afternoon, I sat broken, depressed and deflated. I hadn’t the will to eat or sleep. I could sense the idea still lurking within my murky depths but hopelessly out of reach of my desperate clutches.

A day passed into two, then a fortnight. After a month had passed, I resigned I was doomed to live the life of a mediocre writer, producing boring plots with stale dialogue and flat characters.

It was then the crafty idea of a lifetime pounced on its victim once more.

2

The Burden Returns

The idea came back, but this time, TEN times stronger!

I raced to my laptop, shunning my tradition of first fleshing out my ideas on my still-missing writing pad. I wasn’t going to suffer such futility again.

My fingers were lighting on the machine’s keys, only pausing long enough to rest while my speeding thoughts marinated.

I saved my work after every immaculate sentence, taking no chances.

I wrote on a program that fed into a database that backed up to a fleet of servers in multiple locations across the globe, the possibility of being erased next to zero.

My wife had an appointment, and the kids were away at school, so I was alone with the pets in the house.

I read the greatest story—far greater than the first iteration, mind you!—to the family dog, who, after intently listening to my rousing performance, rolled onto her back, offering her belly in submission.

After an impromptu parade around the island counter top in our kitchen, I researched the top agents in the world and wrote a list of the top ten. Who needs more than ten when a story is this good, this strong, THIS universal in its flawless universal appeal and execution, I thought.

The super agents would thank me for submitting; then they would declare war on one another to represent me. The greatest literary bloodbath in history, for the rights to the greatest author of all time.

Satisfied with my efforts. I paused for a quick snack to regain some much-needed energy. It proved to be my undoing.

When I turned on the laptop from sleep mode, a savage message framed in a crude box popped on the screen to taunt me:

“Weez locked youzz UppP. NO JOKE!!!!!!! Payz Uz to releaze. EZ#$##@!!”

I tried every which way to rescue my beloved story. With horror, I realized the hard drive I had backed up the story on as well was still attached to my computer. Nothing I attempted worked to regain control of my machine. Only new messages like the following continued to aggravate me:

“WEEeeN’T KEEDinG, BROZZZ!!! PAY!!!$$$TOPLEEEY.”

After spending a distressed hour figuring out how to reply to my Magnum Opus’ despicable kidnappers, I willingly surrendered our bank account routing information.

Without consulting my wife, I deemed the situation more than warranted that I pay the ransom. My logic? They wanted thousands. I would make millions. It was a small investment.

I nibbled my nails to the quick while nervously awaiting my assailant’s response.

“WEEEZ ACCCEPPPT. UZZAHGOOD.”

Surprisingly true to their word, the hackers seemed satisfied, and my laptop revved back to life, making a glorious return as if it had merely been paused.

I went to my writing software program feeling once again triumphant. And with a happy click…

No story.

I swallowed hard, again messaging my computer’s repugnant invaders: “Uh, apologies? The very thing I wanted back is gone?”

“WeEE uneEEncrypt EVERYTANG on da drive!!@#$!”

I seethed. “You guys took my story, didn’t you?”

“????!!@#%!”

“Look, I realize how unbelievably good it is, but surely you’re not scribes of any sort and I very much doubt your sister’s an acquisition editor at Penguin Random House.”

And bless their souls, the nice hackers actually sent me a full image containing the history of everything and the kitchen sink on my machine up to the millisecond my computer was frozen.

NO SAVED DOC OF MY STORY. Not even a stinking text file that remotely resembled the idea.

After suffering a marathon hyperventilation fit, I realized I had forgotten the idea entirely.

3

Writer’s Block Cometh

I mourned the loss of The Greatest Story Never Told as if my family had been taken from me.

I concluded the hackers didn’t swipe my masterpiece. How could one steal something as mythical as Don Quixote’s windmills?

Yet they drained our bank account next to nothing. The ransom pirates weren’t the saints I thought they were. They kept pilfering until there was nothing left to pilfer.

I developed an insufferable case of insomnia, refusing to allow myself the luxury of sleep until I remembered.

I couldn’t work, so l lost my job.

I barely ate, so I became rail thin, an ambling skeleton.

Clumps of hair began to fall from my scalp like leaves dropping prematurely before autumn.

My wife lost patience with me on all fronts.

In a surreal haze, one day strange garbed figures pulled me from my disparaged roost of a seat in front of my computer, where I refused to do anything but await an inspiration never to return to me.

Fools gold. The Holy Grail. The leprechaun’s pot at the end of the rainbow. I am convinced now my story was all a mirage; the hopeless fantasy of a raving hack of a writer.

So I sat in my isolated cell for fools deprived of their mind, listening to the din of the fellow suffers on my block, wailing against the things they felt entitled, lost, or stolen.

I loathed thinking; my mind was caught in a torrential loop, haunted by the greatest idea that refused to show itself. Like a malevolent spirit—

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted my ravings, speaking to myself for the first time in months.

THE idea. It was back! And never had it come back to me so fully developed and clear!

Wild with a renewed fervor, my eyes flitted around my cell for something to write with and realized my movements were restricted by the straitjacket they had placed upon me to prevent me from hurting myself.

No matter. For there wasn’t a scrap of paper to be found, not even toilet paper, and certainly no computer, but here it was again, this magnificent story residing in my head, driving my entire want and ambition.

It only had to be delivered, and I was the vehicle. Despite my helpless condition, I had to act.

Then a precious thought came to me as if a bestowed blessing: word of mouth.

A guard would hear, and recognize its brilliance. The warden would surely be summoned. I might have to share profits, but so be it. My goal was no longer fame and fortune but to eject my brilliant, worthy tale from this beleaguered capsule.

“The Greatest Story Never Told,” I whispered, blowing strands of long uncut hair out of my eyes to stare out the meager window of my cell door.

Nobody came. But the story was surging inside my head, pleading for release.

I stood up, feeling compelled to evangelize.

“HEAR ME TELL… THE GREATEST STORY NEVER TOLD!” I screamed with maximum effort.

At the top of my lungs, uninterrupted, I began to recite the unrivaled story in its purest form as told by its prophetic yet misunderstood author.

My execution was brilliant and flawless (if I said so myself).

I continued to unveil my masterpiece with an exhilarating cadence and clarity, grinning the greatest smile of my life for accomplishing what I had once thought was a cursed, forbidden, creative achievement.

My story was finally out, announced to the world in all of its glory:

“THE GREATEST STORY NEVER TOLD!”

“THE GREATEST STORY NEVER TOLD!”

“THE GREATEST STORY NEVER TOLD!”

Could they not hear me?

Someone must.