Writer's Block

Lawrence Cummings, the author of the secret agent series, “Luke Manor,” as well as fifteen separate novels on the New York Times bestsellers list, is sitting in his den staring at the blank screen of his computer. For some time now, sales have almost stopped, and the monthly royalty is only a few dollars at best.  His best books now sell in second-hand bookstores, Goodwills, or flea markets for twenty-five cents each, five for a dollar. In the words of his publisher, the reason for his decline is, “Your books aren’t sellin’ because they don’t fit anymore. Nobody believes in a suave, debonair spy.  That’s an old hat, so seventies!   It’s out of touch with today’s world.   Spies?   You don’t know if they work for a government or hire themselves out for the top dollar! Things have changed, Larry. If you’re going to survive, you have to change your writing style to give the public what it wants or thinks it wants.  Do you see what I mean, Larry, do ya?  No more goody two shoes, OK?”  

           In his heart, Lawrence knows his publisher is right.  Things have changed.  The world is a meaner place now.  It seems that even everyday people are villains. You hear very little about the heroes.  Just read the papers. Why?  What changed to make people so self-centered and vicious? Lawrence grew up in a different time when Americans had pride in their president and government. They believed in Walter Cronkite and the six o’clock news. If the president asked the country to pull together to stop an epidemic, they would.  Now they punch out some poor clerk because he asks them to wear a mask.   They believe they have a right not to.  This isn’t Lawrence’s world, not his style.  He always knew he wasn’t as good as Ian Fleming or Jack Higgins, but Luke Manor and all the other characters in his books have a Superman-type attitude.  They believe in “Truth, Justice, and the American Way!”  Today’s American Way sucks.

           Lawrence shuts off his computer and is shocked to see his reflection on the blank screen. His hair is an unkempt mess and it needs a dye job. There are large bags under his eyes and a five-day growth of whiskers on his sunken cheeks. His Errol Flynn-style pencil mustache is badly overgrown.  Taking down the first book of the Luke Manor series, Lawrence turns it over to look at the picture of himself on the dust jacket. He is younger with thick, dark, wavy hair, a ruggedly handsome face, and a smile that reeks of success.  Ah, those were the days. He had money, more money than he knew what to do with.   The one thing he didn’t do was to save some of it.  Instead, he had an apartment off Times Square and bought a fabulous house in Maine on cliffs that overlooked the stark, rocky shoreline. And the partying! Studio 54, Copacabana. On occasion, you could even find him at The Paradise Garage. 

           Lawrence leans back in his chair and feels his shirt pocket, looking for his pack of cigarettes.  Finding only a crushed empty box of Marlboros, he begins scrounging around in the overly full ashtray, hoping to find a half-smoked one.  Seeing none, Lawrence becomes angry and knocks the ashtray to the floor with a swipe of his hand. He feels sad that he doesn’t even have enough money to buy another pack.  He sighs deeply, dropping his chin to his cheat.

           In the past year, he submitted five six-hundred-page novels to several publishers.  All were rejected.   No explanation, just rejections!   Lawrence now sits each day for hours, staring at the computer, suffering from writer’s block.  Try as he might to think of something, his mind is as blank as the screen before him. This, plus three marriages and divorces, all resulting in three extremely huge alimony and child support checks, are also causing his bank account to dwindle very rapidly.

           Lawrence’s cell phone rings on the end table. Fearing more bad news, he is tempted to let it ring.   Instead he picks it up and looks to see who’s calling. It’s DeeDee, his third wife.  Lawrence thinks, “I bet I know what this is about.”  He answers brightly, “Why hello, DeeDee, my dear. What a pleasant surprise.”  DeeDee replies in her usual overly dramatic style.

           With a long sigh of relief, “Oh, thank goodness I’ve reached you! I have spoken to a few of your acquaintances lately, who said they haven’t seen or talked to you in several days!  Lawrence, I feared something might have happened to you, so I just had to call!” 

           Lawrence thinks, “I’ll bet this is about the money.” Then, chuckling, “No, no, I’m fine, DeeDee. It’s just that I’m working on a new Luke Manor book and, you know me, once I sink my teeth into something, nothing else matters!”

           “Yes, I do recall all those lonely late nights of waiting while you tappity-tapped on your keyboard,”  DeeDee replies snarkily.  “However, I’m relieved you are feeling fine and working again.” Lawrence noticed the accent on the “working again.”

           DeeDee clears her throat.  “There’s just one more thing I’d like to know.  Are there any other problems? My monthly check hasn’t arrived yet, and the children are looking forward to skiing in Aspen on their winter break. So, I was wondering if everything is alright financially.”          “There it is,” Lawrence thinks.  “With all the money I give her each month, you’d think she could afford to take the little assholes skiing. Greedy bitch.”   

           “Not to worry, DeeDee. As I said, when I’m working, I forget everything else. I promise the check will be in the mail in the morning.  However, I must get back to my writing.  Bye.”  Lawrence disconnects, angry that he can’t slam the phone down like in the old days. He throws his cell on the couch and reaches for the bottle of scotch next to him.  Taking a big swig, Lawrence sighs, “I suppose I’ll be hearing from the other two as well.”   He looks at the dining room table, where there is a large pile of utility bills, notices, and warnings from the mortgage company. Even the IRS is looking for the back taxes he owes.  He knows now all is lost.  This writer’s block has spelled out the end of Lawrence Cummings.  “Well, it looks like I have no choice,” Laurence sighs.  “Tomorrow, I’ll do what I must to settle this matter before I lose everything and nothing is left.  Then maybe after probate, they’ll get a little something.

”Early the following day, Lawrence clears and stacks all the bills, notices, and warnings into a neat pile on one end of the dining room table.  Then, in the middle of the table, he places his life insurance papers and will. He also leaves a small handwritten note that reads, “I’m so sorry.  It’s just that I can no longer think of anything to write.  Goodbye, Lawrence.” “There, that should do it,” Lawrence says, rubbing his hands together.  “On to phase two.”

Lawrence drives into town to Albertson’s hardware store, where he buys a sixteen-foot-long heavy-duty chain with two two-inch bolts, washers, and fasteners. Back home in his garage, Lawrence places the blocks in the nose of his wheelbarrow, threads the chain through them all, and secures it with one of the bolt assemblies. Next he coils the chain into the center of the wheelbarrow, takes the remaining end, makes a tight loop about his neck, and fastens it with the remaining bolt, using a pair of pliers to ensure it’s good and tight.

 Lawrence starts to whistle a jaunty little tune as he leaves the garage, heading for the cliff overlooking the ocean.  He’s feeling almost relieved that it will be soon over. No more sitting for hours with writer’s block trying to think of one last story that will save his sorry ass.

When he reaches the spot where the deed will occur, Lawrence notices that the sky has turned grey and cloudy. The wind tears at his hair and clothing, and the salty spray stings his eyes and makes them water. As Lawrence looks out over the ocean, he can hear the waves crashing on the rocks below and thinks of something his publisher had said about spies. Something about not knowing if they were working for a government or themselves.  Storm clouds part a bit, allowing a ray of sunshine to illuminate Lawrence’s face as he shouts, “That’s it! I’ll have Luke Manor go rogue!” Ideas start filling his head like a waterfall cascading into a pool. Letting go of the wheelbarrow handles, he pumps his fists into the air in celebration.  The writer’s block is gone!  Unfortunately, the crossbar between the legs of the wheelbarrow bounces off a rock, causing it to tip forward, sending the blocks over the edge. Lawrence’s excitement wanes as he hears the hissing sound of the chain leaving the wheelbarrow.   He sees the last coil unfurl and the chain go taut.  It is then that the world-renowned author Lawrence Cummings speaks his last words as his feet are lifted off the ground,  “Aw shit.”