Writer's block and constipation have much in common I've heard, and it is heartening to know that neither of them are necessarily life-threatening. Eventually something will happen. Take the case of Henry Roth who died in 1995 at the age of 89. His personal block began in 1934 and lasted until 1979. A relief to him, I am sure -- and a blessing to us as well.
I haven't written a stitch of anything worth putting my name to in two weeks -- and already I'm in a blue funk. Of course there are people who will say, "Be realistic, old Sport, you've never written anything worth putting your name to begin with." But everything's relative, and I am the best barometer of my personal highs and lows.
When I stop to consider that I've lived through almost all the twentieth century I can't believe I've got nothing important to say. I find it difficult to believe the world does not gather at my feet like acolytes and listen to my every word. Most old men, and old women too, will reminisce until the cows come home. You can't shut them up, and they'll bore the hell out of you with tales of yesteryear. Well, I'm more enthusiastic about today than I am about yesteryear, and even more enthusiastic about tomorrow. But, for the moment at least, I'm dry as a bone.
The rectangular glass eye of my computer screen and its throbbing cursor bid me "Write, old man -- my chips are at your disposal." That's one of the problems -- it's too easy. I'm too comfortable sitting here in this high-backed chair in the soft, ambient light and the sweet stereo sounds of a teen-aged Mozart. My mind drifts when I'm too comfortable. I should be squatting on a subway platform, writing on a brown paper bag with the stub of a stolen pencil. Shakespeare must have been supremely uncomfortable to write "King Lear." A burr under his blanket perhaps.
So I get up and walk around this old hollow house of mine. How long will my children let me live here? When will they say, "The old man's getting senile...I wonder if he's eating regularly...Did you see that dust in the corners of the kitchen floor?" Yes, I know children; it looks bad but remember, my mind is on other things. There is music yet to be played and songs I've yet to sing.
How nice it would be to light a fire in that old fireplace and hear the voices of the children and watch the firelight play on my wife's face again. I remember the joy in my old dog's eyes as he watched me start a fire -- he'd sidle closer and closer until he was almost in it. Baking his old bones and looking at me as if I were God Almighty.
God Almighty! How wonderful it was -- a simple thing like a fire. Imagine lighting a fire now and watching it flicker into darkness in a hollow house. I am not that heartless a man.
I haven't been upstairs in years. Maybe it would be fun to root around in the attic. The old L.C. Smith typewriter is up there -- it would be fun to write for a while with that, wouldn't it? The ribbon is probably brittle as an old newspaper. I could go over to Staples and get a new one -- "Excuse me sir, would you have a black ribbon for an L.C. Smith typewriter vintage 1924?" For want of such a ribbon, who knows how many stories will die a-borning?
But then, there's other things up there I'd rather not see again. The old double bed for one, where we nestled like well-worn teaspoons and waited for the sun to break through the tall south windows. From those same windows today, I know I could see the graveyard of Holy Rood.
I feel like an intruder in this old house, someone who might have broken in while the family was away. I feel the police may come and ask me what I'm doing here.
"Strange as it may seem, Officer -- I live here alone. I'm home alone."
"Don't make no sense, old timer. Nobody lives alone."
That's for sure. Not if they can do anything about it. That's another reason for Writer's Block -- I hear the echo of so many voices, house voices. They can't be turned off, and they interrupt my train of thought.
Sick of this hollow house, I get my hat and coat, activate the answering machine, and go out on the town I know so well. I know each sidewalk crack, and where I must scrunch down a bit to avoid the low-hanging branches. Walking is good for the heart, good for the mind -- and good for the bowels, my doctor tells me.
I call this town "Westlake Village." That's to protect it from tourists. We take our tranquility seriously, and I would be chastised severely if people came to gawk at us because of my random writing. My children grew up here, and to them the Village was a boundless province of enchantment. High school proms, football rivalries, and new best friends every day. My wife, a flaming activist, knew everyone and, by default, so did I. Husbands like me stood by and looked at each other and marveled at the sleepless energy and raw citizenship of their wives. It's a better town because of them -- and now so still, so quiet at Holy Rood.
Walk a little faster, the light is fading . . .
The school, yes! -- five buildings. There are fewer children now than there were then, but the school is bigger. Three principals! The old janitor has been replaced by three 'Facilities Superintendents,' and there is the dull green glow of computer screens everywhere. There is a media room with video camera equipment and a closed circuit television studio. Somebody told me just the other day that the coach has provided our star quarterback with a private masseuse from the chiropractor on Westlake Avenue. How splendid! My tax dollars at work! Will he remember us when he signs his first contract with the National Football League?
The lights are coming on. Isn't that a strange turn of phrase? It must spring from the gaslight era when the lamp lighter lit the lamps along Downing Street and Portobello Road. They come on automatically now -- when the sun goes down, the lights come on, ready or not.
I know it's not good for me, but here I am again at Holy Rood.
"How are you getting on? Are you dressed warmly enough for this time of year? Are you getting enough to eat? How are the kids? Are you writing anything worthwhile? How are things in Westlake Village?"
I'm doing my best, dear. I wish it was better, but it's the best I know how to do.
Table of Contents
Letter to the Author:
Harry Buschman at HBusch8659@aol.com