Blocked

Simon had always been drawn to expression through the written word, but at this moment he was plagued by writer’s block. Even as the heat outside crept its way into his dark motel room, Simon sat firmly at his laptop staring at the words that could be; the stories that could be. He had become just another starving writer, lost in a monetized world. 

The local Nevada news station had said it was going to be the hottest week of the year, and as Simon sat shirtless, drenched in sweat, he felt it. The bridge of his nose was too slick to hold his thick framed glasses from slipping down. His bare feet were swimming in a hot jungle of shag carpet. This was not a place to work. It was too hot, too deserted. The desert heat doesn’t breed creativity, it freezes it. Even if he could focus with all the heat, what would he write about?

He thought it was futile to even try in this elevated temperature. Simon got up from the cheap desk and walked into the tacky, pink tiled bathroom. Taking off his glasses, he splashed lukewarm water onto his face and neck. Then ran his wet hands through his curly black hair. Maybe he should take the rest of the day off and go to the bar next door? Even though that’s exactly what he did yesterday.

Simon grabbed a plain white shirt and threw it on over his head as he left his dark room and squinted into the blinding Nevada sun. It was boiling, the heat evaporated the water off of his face almost instantly. A thermometer on the wall next to his room said that it was 115 degrees Fahrenheit. He wondered why he ever thought of coming here with no set plan, why he decided to take on this spontaneous road trip. As he walked to the bar he thought back to that day he left.

It was the same as every other Friday in Ithaca. He woke up, had his coffee, stared at his computer blankly for an hour, and then drove over to his therapist’s office at ten. It was cold that day, a mist hung over the world as his boots sank into the damp grass walking up to the door of his therapist’s.

When Simon got inside he took his place at the leather chair in the corner of the office. It was a blank place, grey, emotionless. It matched his therapist, Dr. Sandra Harret. She was a colorless wall, a pillow to scream into when you’re hurt. She offered no guidance, just an ear to speak in to. She had a cold air to her. This was an attribute that his sister had said Simon shared with her. When Simon looked into her eyes expecting kindness, he saw none. She sat there with the same scholarly expression he had when reading Hawthorne. 

How’s your writing been coming along? she asked him with no tone of actual interest.

It’s been a little difficult lately, I seem to have hit a block for some reason. I don’t know why.

Simon chewed his thumbnail anxiously as he spoke. He was always fidgety, jumpy even. It was just something that most people thought would leave once he reached adulthood, but it never did.

Your last novel has been doing well I’ve heard? she said.

Oh? You read it? Simon asked.

No, I’m sorry. I haven’t had the time lately, she said with a look of no intent to ever read Simon’s debut novel.

His novel had done relatively well, especially for someone just out of grad school. It was a historical fiction novel that was actually an accumulation of the fears and desires that plagued him. He wasn’t winning any major awards, but a few small ones though. His novel was good, just not great.

I just feel like maybe that was it for me. Maybe I was destined to have written only one novel?

She mulled this over in her head and thought about it a moment. She had the appearance that she was in agreement with that statement. Maybe Simon was destined to only have one novel to his name. Not one that will make him known as one of the best writers of the age, but a relatively well known one. 

Is that a fear of yours? she eventually asked.

The buzzer on the coffee table between them signalled the end of the session. As Simon got up to leave, Dr. Harret gave him her first piece of advice. 

Maybe you should try a new change of scenery? she said in a momentary softness that soon hardened again.

Thank you, Simon said. Maybe I’ll try that.

That night Simon packed a small bag, got into his car, and drove west with no clear direction. That’s how he ended up in an unknown desert town in Nevada, a place where he would regret not packing shorts or any shoes that weren’t his leather boots. In the dry heat his clothes stuck to his skin, and they did so now as he walked to the bar.

The local bar had no A/C. What it did have was a sweaty, overweight bartender and a single fan that spun in slow circles. Simon sat down at the counter and ordered a beer. It was disgusting, but it was cold and that’s all that really mattered to him. Simon was the only person in the bar, due to it only being eleven in the morning. 

How long you staying in town for? the bartender asked. He had a slight raspy drawl to his voice. He was balding on the top of his head and he was wearing denim jeans along with a “Kiss me I’m Irish” t-shirt.

I have no idea, Simon said. I’m probably going to leave tomorrow though.

Where ya going?

Somewhere a little cooler.

Ya, I could tell you ain’t from Nevada. You from Washington or Oregon? the bartender asked.

Ithaca, Simon said sipping his beer and feeling the carbonation roll over his tongue.

Where’s that? the bartender asked with mild confusion.

It’s in New York, where Cornell is.

Ya. Nice school, huh?

The bartender was impassive, uncaring. It was a nice blow to Simon’s sense of self importance. Maybe he wasn’t any better than this small town bartender. After all, they both weren’t writing anything at the moment.

Ya. For grad school, Simon said. I was a part of the writing program. I wrote a book actually. And that’s the reason I’m out here, I’m trying to get inspiration for my second.

Well, best of luck to you, the bartender said and he walked into the back room escaping any further conversation.

Simon finished his beer and walked back to his room in the blistering heat. He was covered in sweat when he closed the door to his dark cave and once again sat in front of his computer. He thought about that last question Dr. Harret had asked him before he left. Was he afraid that one book was going to be it for him? Did the idea of being out of creativity terrify him? In truth he was, and it did. Writing was really all he knew, and he had never had a block like this. 

The craft had always come so easily to him, and the thought that he’d been completely sapped of creativity was terrifying. The thought of never writing again horrified him, and this fear made him feel locked inside a cage. Also, he feared that if he ever found creativity, he may never get to the point that he’s always wanted to be at. So he sat, staring at the blank screen, feeling the heat creep over his body.

 Maybe he’d go back to the bar in a bit. Maybe tomorrow he’d drive back to Ithaca. Maybe he’d just stay in Nevada one night more. All he knew for sure was that he couldn’t write at that moment.

It was just so hot.