No Pressure

Matt spent some time going through old journal entries this afternoon, and, well, here I am! This tiny spark of creative inspiration. Not quite a complete idea, more of an inkling of a thought, really – a sorta Thinkling, if you will. 

Sure, I’m not much now, but gimme a little time in the creative process and I can become, well, just about anything! I know many Thinklings before me that grew into short stories, poems, even a full-blown novel! So the pressure is on.

Matt packs a bag, and together we march up the stairs to the roof of his apartment: Famously his favorite spot to write. I’m practically swelling with excitement. Armed only with a pen and notebook, we’re off to war with art! I look forward to bleeding out over the typewriter as Hemingway might say.  

It’s gotta be close to midnight, but it’s not hard to see at all on this Brooklyn rooftop. Matt takes a look out towards the bridge for a moment before settling into his creative nook against the chimney. He pulls out his trusty notebook, a few pens, and also a beer. 

“Want one?” he asks as he pops off the bottle cap.

None for me, thanks! Gotta stay sharp. He shrugs and looks back out into the horizon.

Oh boy! How exciting is this? What if I become this big, totally adored, totally revered thing? Like a bestseller or something? The possibilities make me giddy, and it all starts here at this moment…  

First, there’s silence. A lot of silence. Matt’s just chewing on the tip of his pen. It’s important to trust the process. The writer mentally tosses and turns deep in thought. I feel chills go down my figurative spine. He takes out his phone and swipes through it for a bit. I think he’s on Reddit. I’ll just give him a moment.

Writer’s block – thou is a fickle foe, but that’s the name of the game. One must always power through. It was Ray Bradbury who once said, “You fail only if you stop writing.”

Ok, he’s still not really doing anything. So far, he’s been on his phone for, like, 10 minutes. I’m sure there’s something brewing. Just to be safe, I clear my hypothetical throat. He looks up in surprise, as if he forgot I was here, which is somewhat concerning.

I’m sorry, maybe I’m not quite getting it. I gotta ask: Have we started? Because I was expecting a bit more activity than this.

He looks at me with a blank expression.

I guess I thought we’d be fully thrown into the creative process by now. You know, writing something and then scribbling it out, and rewriting again. The push and pull of it all, like wrestling with this big marlin or whatever? I don’t know. Like, our pen is the fishing rod, right? And we’re wading around in the paper in hopes of catching an idea?

“Hey, that’s cute. I like that.” He chuckles quietly. He doesn’t write anything down though. Nope, he’s just taking some kind of selfie with the moon behind him. Good stuff. He finishes up the last of his beer and pulls out a second one. Well, at least there’s some kind of progress happening. 

He’s probably just hoping for that perfect stroke of genius to occur. Not likely! Margaret Atwood once said, “If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.” I find this really inspiring, because it’s nice seeing successful artists as fellow contemporaries of the craft. Of course she’s totally lying though. Atwood is perfection and everything she thinks is perfection and she’s just being modest. What an immortal god. 

Oh! He’s laughing to himself. I wonder what he’s come up with. No, wait, he’s watching some old comedy sketch on his phone, and now he’s showing it to me. I don’t think it’s very funny, and now that’s done as well. 

This can’t be how it’s usually done. Is it me? Perhaps I’m not really anything in the end. Hey, it happens. Some Thinklings are destined to live out their days in the notes app. It’s a quiet life, but a proud one. 

Matt finally gets off his phone. He’s still for a moment before getting up and pacing. Hey! We’ve got pacing! I watch him stop at the edge of his apartment’s five-story roof and stare straight down. He appears to be contemplating something. The expression on his face is stern with a hint of defeat slipping through.

This is what it means to be a writer: A tortured genius looms above the unforgiving Brooklyn eave, considering the sweet relief that lies just one step farther. Total absolvement from what an artist—

He’s peeing. 

He’s peeing off the roof. I can hear the splattering down on the sidewalk below. 

Ok, so now I’m starting to question all this silence that’s going on here. I don’t think this has been a 'writer that's lost in thought' type of silence at all. No, sir, this seems to be more of a 'pathetic alcoholic wasting all of our time' type of silence, in my humble opinion. He zips up his pants and returns to his backpack for—yep—beer number three, right on schedule. Brilliant. 

Look, Matt, I don’t want to sound ungrateful here, but isn’t something supposed to, you know, happen?

“Like what?” he answers.

Like what? Like WHAT?!

I don’t know what to say to that, and now I’m the one that’s quiet. The underwhelming silence returns once more, but only for a moment. 

A taxi honks its horn below us. Across the street two women laugh on their balcony over a cigarette while a man cooks in the kitchen window beside them. I look farther out into the skyline. There aren’t any stars, but thousands of windows twinkle and shimmer just across the river. There’s too many to count. Too many stories and possibilities within them. It’s not a bad sight, I’ll admit. I can see why Ginsberg and O’Hara stuck around.

Over my imaginary shoulder, I hear Matt click his pen. I suppose one beer won’t kill me.