October 30, 2002

Today is the day to remember that markers don't write that well on pumpkin.

Tomorrow I post the answers to my queries on the movie Grease. I will not call you out by name this time but if you have some free time, or some thoughts on the movie, be they positive, negative or something else, read this and email me what you have to say.

25

George threw his suitcases into his foyer. His parents had left for their cruise without even saying goodbye to him, just a scrawled note to him on a Post-It. They were really no help at all. All he had gleaned by this point is that somehow contact with him was making other people write, and yet it wasn't happening for him.

Letters were piled up on the floor from the mail slot. George gave them a vicious kick and they sailed across the flagstone floor, except one stuck to his shoe, where a bit of gum remained. He tried kicking it off, to no avail, and peeled it off.

It was another cut-and-pasted note. George sighed as if he were annoyed, but he was secretly happy to be receving attention from somebody mysterious. Maybe they had answers for him.

Still not writing? It said. Why is everybody else you know doing it? Are you finished?

George intended to tear the missive up into confetti-sized pieces but quickly grew bored and gave up after two tears. He threw the four pieces over his shoulder onto the floor as well.

He ordered in Chinese (egg rolls, pot stickers, lo mein and General Tzo's chicken), and opened a bottle of beer.

He was tired of this. What was the point? So what if he couldn't write right now? What was the big deal? He had more money than was necessary to support several families. He was young. Who cared?

George finished his beer and opened another one. He lit a cigarette.

Of course, what would he do? There was nothing else for him. As much as he enjoyed the prospect of living out the rest of his youth, his middle age and his old age in sloth, he knew that he would have to remain occupied. And that would not be with personal friendships, or by helping out the community, or bettering himself.

''Fuck 'em." he said out loud. Although regarding who, he did not know.

The third beer he poured into a glass, and modified it into a boilermaker.

He considered calling Lillibet. But he knew that she'd tell him what he eventually needed to do. And that was call his sister.

Fortunately, the Chinese food was delivered shortly. He purposefully bought a house near several delivery locations for speedy receipt of unhealthful food.

George retreated to his study and ate his food while he watched a mindless television show about men from different countries who made robots out of junk and battled each other with them. He made sarcastic comments out loud and drank a few more beers.

The room blurred a bit and George welcomed the prospect of sleep, but every few minutes a 'ping' or 'bang' would emit from the television show, and George would return to full consciousness.

Who said that he still had writer's block? He hadn't tried in some time. He simply assumed it was still there. Just as he had become accustomed to pumping out volumes of literature, he had become accustomed to not being able to. Maybe it was all a fluke.

Without cleaning up his food, or turning off the television, George walked to his study and began writing on his ridiculously expensive computer (he only used it for email and for writing, yet he demanded top-of-the-line, full of gizmos and whizbangs he never used.)

Words flowed from George's fingers. He typed and typed and raced. It was like he wasn't even thinking. He wrote for two hours straight and when he was done, he sat back and lit a cigarette.

There. See? This was all a stupid, stupid fluke.

George, proud of himself, scrolled to the top of the screen. Words came to him so easily that he very frequently didn't even remember or think about what he was producing.

It seemed familiar, this story. Something about it…

George realized that, word for word, he had replicated the first six chapters of his third novel, You're an Ape.

Some might say that it was a start, from not being able to produce anything at all. Some might say it was irony (in that not-quite-ironic Alanis Morrisette way.) George saw it as a reason to carry his computer to his top floor and drop it out the window.

George hated himself. No, wait, that wasn't exactly true. George never truly loathed himself, even though he was an obviously prime candidate for self-loathing. He loathed everybody else instead.

But he knew what he had to do. Other than find what was wrong, make peace with these other poseurs pretending to write, and find out who was sending him those stupid anonymous letters.

He had to call Meredith.

He decided to call his brother instead.