They Always Ask: What Comes After THE END?
By Laura Spinella
It’s itchy palms and a cold sweat, a compulsive urgethat a team of interventionists couldn’t thwart. That’s what I’m down to. No, don’t be ridiculous, I haven’t quit
drinking. I said compulsive not insane. But what I have done is turn in a
manuscript. It leaves me with time, a gaping hole from 7 a.m. until noon. Initially,
I’m dazzled by the prospect—think cats and a tinfoil ball. By living in the
mainstream I can get things done, big and small. I’ll chase time until it lodges itself under my sunroom sofa, moving something like this: Instead of
brushing by old newspapers and dirty toilets, I take the papers to the recycle
bin, scrub the toilets until I’ve drowned the Ty-D-Bol man. I make every bed and vacuum the
floor of my closet. Afterward, I’m surprised but only marginally alarmed to
find that morning has two hours left.
Not a problem. I have a 30%-off Kohl’s coupon. By noon everyone has new
underwear and I have half-a-dozen potential outfits for a trip that’s three months
away. On day two, dinner is a planned
event. My usual incidental dash to the microwave
morphs into a Julia Child effort, one that involves béchamel sauce and a 1,000
calorie French dessert. By day three, my
real jobs are organized as if they
are my goal. Newspaper stories are booked weeks in advance; my editor is dazed
but delighted. Normally, I’d segue from my
WIP to my cyber-gig needing a shower and wearing pajama pants with a
hole in the crotch. Not now. Now I show up in makeup and clothing that does not
involve an elastic waist. Day four I surprise my son and pop in at track
practice. I bring brownies for the hardworking boys. From across the field, his
head pivots sharply. It’s as if he smells something repugnant in the air. I
wave. He trots steadily in my direction, glancing right at a gaggle of girls
who, apparently, also stopped by to watch.
“What are you doing here?
Is someone dead?”
Is someone dead?”
“I had free time. Can’t
a mother watch her son practice?”
a mother watch her son practice?”
“Seriously, why are you
here? It’s track practice. I’m perfectly safe.”
here? It’s track practice. I’m perfectly safe.”
I assume he’s alluding to his younger years when I tended to hyper-fret
about things like child abduction. I decide it’s still plausible. “You never
know who’s lurking.”
about things like child abduction. I decide it’s still plausible. “You never
know who’s lurking.”
 |
| What happens if you’re not careful with your javelin |
“I have
a black-belt in Taekwondo and a javelin in my hand. Go home; go write something.” He darts across the field, taking his
position. Only for a moment do I think he’s considering hurling the javelin at
me.
a black-belt in Taekwondo and a javelin in my hand. Go home; go write something.” He darts across the field, taking his
position. Only for a moment do I think he’s considering hurling the javelin at
me.
And this is where dazzle
turns to disaster. I’m not the mom who goes to practice. The thrill of a
three-course meal can only satisfy for so long. I hate shopping and my day jobs
function fine on the fly. Twenty-four
hours later, I stare at my sunroom writing chair. It’s wrapped in metaphoric
yellow caution tape. I may not enter; I
have no business there. There’s a hard
rule about revisiting a manuscript that’s no longer in my possession. I’d only see
a thousand missteps, unable to change anything. Rationally, I should look
forward to this break. Downtime is supposed to be beneficial, an opportunity to
recharge the muse. Well, clearly, my muse is an addict. I sit and write a blog,
thinking it’s a quick fix. Two paragraphs
in and I find my knee bouncing like a drunk with a Dixie cup. It’s not enough.
This is not to say the muse has anything remotely brilliant to relay. In fact,
it’s the very reason I equate it to an addiction. A wiser person would seek
help. Besides, what would I write? The
muse has a suggestion.
turns to disaster. I’m not the mom who goes to practice. The thrill of a
three-course meal can only satisfy for so long. I hate shopping and my day jobs
function fine on the fly. Twenty-four
hours later, I stare at my sunroom writing chair. It’s wrapped in metaphoric
yellow caution tape. I may not enter; I
have no business there. There’s a hard
rule about revisiting a manuscript that’s no longer in my possession. I’d only see
a thousand missteps, unable to change anything. Rationally, I should look
forward to this break. Downtime is supposed to be beneficial, an opportunity to
recharge the muse. Well, clearly, my muse is an addict. I sit and write a blog,
thinking it’s a quick fix. Two paragraphs
in and I find my knee bouncing like a drunk with a Dixie cup. It’s not enough.
This is not to say the muse has anything remotely brilliant to relay. In fact,
it’s the very reason I equate it to an addiction. A wiser person would seek
help. Besides, what would I write? The
muse has a suggestion.
“Remember that idea I spun
a year ago? We were driving. Instead of the license plate game we played the what if game. What if that girl, the one with the crummy
newspaper job and the psychic gift, landed in your lap top? Come. Sit. You know you want to.”
a year ago? We were driving. Instead of the license plate game we played the what if game. What if that girl, the one with the crummy
newspaper job and the psychic gift, landed in your lap top? Come. Sit. You know you want to.”
“No I don’t. What I want
is for you to quit delivering half-baked ideas, expecting me to fill in the
blanks.”
is for you to quit delivering half-baked ideas, expecting me to fill in the
blanks.”
“Sorry, if you wanted a thoroughmuse your last name should have been Rowling or Roberts. I work with what
they give me.”
“Do you have any idea
how much time and commitment your ideas take? Someday I’ll regret it, the
endless hours I’ve wasted on you.”
how much time and commitment your ideas take? Someday I’ll regret it, the
endless hours I’ve wasted on you.”
“And still, you would have
spent more time sleeping. You’re not getting that time back either. So come, sit. Just try it. One sentence, a character
name, the way he looks at her—focus, you’ll see it. And I haven’t even told you the best part of my
idea.”
spent more time sleeping. You’re not getting that time back either. So come, sit. Just try it. One sentence, a character
name, the way he looks at her—focus, you’ll see it. And I haven’t even told you the best part of my
idea.”
“Ha! I’ve lived your
ideas, holistic designer, rock star, a rogue man on a motorcycle. They’re absurd.” Yet, ruefully, I inch into the room.
ideas, holistic designer, rock star, a rogue man on a motorcycle. They’re absurd.” Yet, ruefully, I inch into the room.
“Maybe. But the motorcycle man worked out fine. I heard
he’s up for a few nifty awards. Besides,
what are your options? Plant a garden,
take up golf, stalk the high school cafeteria?”
he’s up for a few nifty awards. Besides,
what are your options? Plant a garden,
take up golf, stalk the high school cafeteria?”
“Shut up.” But as I speak, I’m fighting temptation and
gravity. I move closer.
gravity. I move closer.
“That’s it. Ease your way in. We’ll go slow. We’ll talk.
Hell, maybe I’ll even float you some backstory.”
Hell, maybe I’ll even float you some backstory.”
My fingers move past the cautionary yellow tape. The
leather chair does feel good. It’s only
been a week, but there’s dust is on the keyboard. We can’t have that. Okay, I’ll sit—but only for a minute…
leather chair does feel good. It’s only
been a week, but there’s dust is on the keyboard. We can’t have that. Okay, I’ll sit—but only for a minute…
Awesome, Laura! Wow. You nailed that perfectly! We just can't stay away, can we? Well done.
Thanks, Laura! No, I don't think we can!
Yes, the motorcycle man did work out, beautifully if I recall (Pun intended!). So listen to that muse, especially if there are more men like Mr. Harley Davidson up her sleeve.
Charli Mac, you slay me! Thanks for stopping in!!