Nowhere But Up

“The story lines are all taken. Who can top Steven King and Charles Dickens, or Jane Austen and Margaret Atwood? The world is filled with writers.”

Highlighting three pages of text, hours of work and a week of sleepless nights, Brandy pressed delete. In less than a blink, an empty page lay before her, not even smoke lingered.

The truth of her life seeped into every story she wrote and glared back at her in disgust. 

“Get over it. Move on. Stop dragging me through the mud! How do I write a fictional story without getting in the way?”

She pressed brew on the coffee maker and looked at the grackles on her lawn, pecking for seed. Iridescent hues of rich green and blue glistened with the turn of the sun against ebony feathers. The bird feeder no longer hung on the pole. All that was left was the last seed from the bag scattered on the ground. 

Hummingbirds would soon return and spring thaw meant bears would be lumbering. She didn’t want them knocking her feeder over. She fixed it last year. It might not afford another injury and neither could she.

“She wondered how those birds felt. Do they know I care for them none the less? What of their conversations?

Oh, she couldn’t stand it! Grackles and mourning doves never went to the feeder anyways. They foraged on the ground. The chickadees and downy woodpeckers had disappeared to find other seed. Here she was, criticizing the birds, concerned with what they were thinking, and blaming herself for removing their supply, when in fact she knew they never gave her a thought. They were just eating.

Just then a black van pulled into her driveway. Jane got out dressed in jeans, tan sweater and bright yellow mud boots. 

“I thought you were driving out today to see your mom. What are you doing here?”

Jane mumbled something under her breath, couldn’t hear, then spoke louder. She walked in, pulled off her boots and set them against the wall. She called a couple of days ago and canceled. Said Jim wasn’t doing so well and maybe could I come another time. I swear he doesn’t like me. Seems every time I plan a weekend, he has some lame excuse why I shouldn’t come. I don’t know why my mom ever took up with him. He’s just plain strange. They don’t even live together and she acts like he owns her.

Brandy poured two cups of coffee and set one in front of her. 

“Just in time, fresh a few minutes ago, she said.

Oh, you got writers block again. You never drink coffee unless you’re frustrated. What’s got you stuck?”

“Damn fiction. I don’t tell stories. I write facts”. This is my third try. The first two I got a 1 star rating! Kind of humiliating, you know?

“Then write facts. Who knows but you whether they're true or not? Make up some facts. Better yet, write facts no one knows but you and write fiction.”

Brandy listened. Writing was new to her. She always wrote her story. She was really all she knew. She didn’t know enough about anyone else. Who was she to do that? Someone surely would accuse her of slander or plagiarism. She saw enough of that to know she didn’t want the reputation.”

She changed the subject.

“So, can't you just ask your mom what’s up with Jim? 

“I tried a couple times but I feel funny about it. Since my dad died I stay away from the subject of she getting serious with anyone else. Five years of cancer took his life but left her in limbo. He may be in a better place but she’s still here with all the memories. Jim seems to fill in a gap I guess.”

“Jane sipped her coffee. The mug warmed her hands. 

“I wish this rain would stop, she said. “The daffodils are drooping. I wonder what they think. A long winter underground, a few days glory and wham, down with the first rainfall. Doesn’t seem fair, does it? 

“Well, who cares? No one really pays that much attention. More worried about keeping their clothes dry, staying warm, and what their next step is. There’s always more after them.”

At that, Jane put her empty mug in the sink.

“Thanks for letting me vent, you really helped me a lot. I think I’ll call My mom just to tell her a miss her and try to plan another weekend. A five hour drive is nothing. I can do it anytime. And I don’t know what is up with her relationship. None of my business really. Until she asks, I shouldn’t judge.”

Brandy said goodbye and wiped up the mud near the door from Jane’s boots. She looked outside. The grackles were gone. It all looked like a watercolor painting. Gray dripped from the sky over the trees and grass and dug pockets of murky ink into the lawn. 

She sunk down too into her couch and rehearsed the morning. 

“I don’t know how I helped Jane”, she murmured. “I don’t know anything about her mother, never even met her.”

She looked at the empty computer screen. She thought about the birds and the daffodils.

She smiled.

“What am I writing for anyways? To win? To judge someone else? Everyone’s a critic, even me. 

I’m writing so I can learn how to write.”

A memory surfaced of her very first story and the editor who she paid to edit it. She remembered the red Xs he slashed over sentences and paragraphs. How she hated him! How dare he! For three days she cried because he told her to rewrite it. She did. Today she can’t thank him enough for critiquing her words so she could grow. 

Lila called Brad from the window. “Come here and see! I finished my story!”

Brad put down the rake and walked inside.

“These leaves gotta be raked. Gonna snow any day now. What's the rush! 

“I want you to read my story so I can get it in before the deadline. Its about a writer with writer block and how she gets inspired again.”

“Oh, that must have been easy for you. You always know what to write!”

Lila smiled and for a few minutes let him live in his imagination.