The Writers' Mind As A Sewer (standard:humor, 3776 words)
Author: K. Derby	Added: Apr 20 2004	Views/Reads: 3345/2333	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A writer suffers a break in his writing routine.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


I felt that, since my novel was going well, I was sticking reasonably
closely to my outline and my characters were developing as I intended, 
I could risk a browse of the book aisle. 

My relationship with books tends to be somewhat catholic – anything with
English words will do – and I have read stuff of the worst stripe.  
Wal-mart's offerings, leaning heavily towards the lowest common 
denominator, tends to be bottom heavy with category romance works and 
chick-lit fiction. 

But this was a break in my routine.  I needed to be selective as these
may be the last fictional words that I read for a year. 

Careful scrutiny of the rack revealed one book that would possibly fit
the bill for a quick browse. 

It was a category romance. Its lurid red cover was what drew my eye. 
It, the cover, was decorated with a photo-realistic drawing of a man 
and woman tangled in bed sheets.  Her arms and the sheets beguilingly 
covered her more prurient bits.  She was, of course, gorgeous and 
otherwise fully displayed to the book-buying public.  The man with her 
on the other hand, while reasonably handsome, was hidden behind her 
body but for his face, arms and hands, but presumably unclothed as 
well. 

My eyes narrowed.  Curious. While his right hand was clearly visible
cradling the woman's face, his left hand was hidden underneath the 
sheet demurely draped across her hips. 

Why was his hand hidden?  What was it doing? 

My imagination kicked into overdrive. 

Possibly this man, an otherwise hale and hearty appearing fellow, had a
deformity of the left hand.  Perhaps he was so concerned about this 
deformity that, regardless of the close intimacy represented on the 
book's cover, he could not bear to have his paramour view it. Perhaps 
he felt that his left hand was so hideous that, if she saw it, she 
would disavow her affections and flee from him. 

A man conflicted physically and mentally. 

After one last glance at the cover, I flipped it over to read the back
blurb.  Sure enough, while the emphasis appeared to be on the heroine, 
it did seem that the object of her budding romance, a certain 
improbably named Riker Romero, was the brooding secretive type.  Just 
the type of fellow who would obsess over a misshapen limb and go to any 
lengths to disguise it. 

I opened the book to a random page, my intention being to find out if he
was indeed possessed of a physical infirmity that would cause him to 
want to hide a limb from his lover. 

A sweaty, lust-filled, minute later, I put the book back down, my moist
palm prints still visible on the cover of the paper back. 

I reigned in my heaving hormones and decided that I needed one more
perusal, this time starting at the beginning. 

Several pages later, I was no closer to the resolution of the issue. 
The first 15 pages seemed to be concerned with the state of the 
heroine's, Hetta, desperate lack of love life. There was no mention of 
a brooding Riker Romero missing a left hand.  Clearly his introduction 
was to be withheld until later. 

I set the book back after noticing the suspicious stares of a
blue-smocked Wal-Mart employee. 

I continued through the store stocking up on decongestants and other
cold remedies but, as I did so, thoughts rolled through my mind, 
clouding my otherwise enjoyable experience with a series of conundrums. 


What was wrong with the Riker's left hand?  Why was he compelled to be
ashamed of a physical infirmity?  Was there something in his past – 
possibly a traumatic accident resulting in the death of a loved one –  
which the injured limb reminded him of?  Was this why he could not bear 
to have it displayed? 

After finding myself debating the difference between cherry and lemon
flavoured cough drops, I could stand it no longer and raced back to the 
book aisle.  The book was there where I left it, my palm prints still 
visible on its cover.  Gratefully I added it to my basket.  Perhaps a 
closer read would answer the questions racing through my head. 

I was unable to start a serious read of the book until Friday evening. 
That night, after the children were snug in their beds, I started to 
read. 

My wife, growing bored with her hawking and sniffling, the country music
channel holding nothing of interest, bid me good night.  I waved her 
on, entranced; it was late but I was determined to find out the secret 
of the left hand. 

While I am usually a quick reader, my parched literary state and the
serious questions posed by the cover demanded that I read slowly.  All 
the better to savour the book and pick up any clues the author offered 
as to Riker's infirmity. 

Several hours later, my eyes dry and gritty, I finished the book.  At
the end, I was no wiser as to the state of Riker's left hand: it 
appeared to be fully functioning and otherwise complete – cover art 
notwithstanding.  In addition, to my dismay Riker, while brooding and 
bitter, appeared not to be obsessed with a past accident, but rather 
with a string of failed relationships.  Adequate, but nothing that 
would explain Riker's reticence in displaying his left hand.  As a 
matter of fact, there were several passages in the book where, 
disregarding evidence to the contrary, he used his left hand in a most 
convincingly whole fashion. 

The bulk of the book seemed to be concerning Hetta's lack of sexual
fulfillment and her resultant, graphically written, searchings for 
satisfaction of this need.  Indeed, Riker only appeared half-way 
through the thin novel. 

In short, I was totally misled: Riker was whole and otherwise
unconflicted except in a superficial way.  Not at all what was promised 
on the cover.  The writing, while competent enough, did not stir me in 
anything other than libidinous images of myself and my wife re-enacting 
some of the more moving moments.  That this imagery was prominent in my 
thoughts was no doubt due to the absence of attention I had paid to 
that part of our relationship in the last little while. 

Oddly enough, other than the burning fire set down low, my brain was
ablaze with another need. 

The need to write. 

The novel, if one could call such a smut driven piece of work a novel,
seemingly inspired me to write.  A number of scenes and circumstances 
were bubbling through my head that demanded immediate scribbling before 
they vanished.  My mind, like my body, isn't what it once used to be 
and I needed to be alert to these needs. 

Even though it was late, 2 am, and I was unaccustomed to writing at my
computer, I sat down and began a veritable orgy of literary composition 
by firing up my word processor. I was hot, ablaze with creative desire, 
and fairly burned as the words leapt in a sparking torrent onto my 
paper-white monitor.  It was as if I was possessed by a red-hot 
literary demon.  I wrote unrelentingly, uncaringly.   The ceaseless 
passion for my work surging from my brow to the monitor. 

When I finally saved the file, I was spent, drained and exhausted.  It
was eight in the morning and the children were getting up, I had spewed 
out five-thousand-odd words into my draft novel.  I was elated!   At 
this rate I could finish my novel by next week! 

I was tired, but the day had a certain routine, weekend or no, and sleep
was not on the agenda. 

That night, mind still aflame with story ideas and possibilities, I
eschewed my wife's advances, she was feeling better it seemed, 
preferring instead to immerse myself in the fantasy world that I was 
constructing at such a rapid pace.  Tired or not, I was in the mood to 
write. 

Again, after several hours of attacking the keyboard with heated fury,
well after my wife had gone to bed and risen again, I saved the file. 
My opus was several thousand words richer for my sweaty efforts.  I had 
not taken the opportunity to review the previous night's work feeling 
that I was too close to the moment of creation, choosing instead to 
bask in the afterglow of my accomplishments.  My last remaining writing 
routine had now fallen by the wayside. 

The Easter eggs, while not a part of weekend routine, were hidden with
cursory dispatch, my tiredness prohibiting any real attempt at cunning 
in hiding the treats. 

With no sleep, I needed to shop and prepare for the Easter feast
extravaganza.  In addition to the Mother-in-Law, various other 
relatives and hangers-on were arriving in the expectation of some 
culinary effort on our part. 

As a break in tradition, it had been determined that, cooler weather
aside, a deep-fried turkey – southern style – was to be the menu item 
of choice.  Disregarding the fact that I had never used a deep-fryer in 
my life, I prefer my cooking as Escoffier intended it: on the stove-top 
and in the range, I made my bleary rounds of the grocery stores to 
purchase the required ingredients. 

Later, I fumbled my way through the assembly of the deep-fryer. 
Essentially a large cooking pot supported over a burner by three 
metal-framed legs, its assembly was difficult filled with dropped bolts 
and much dark cursing. 

Thus prepared, I set the deep fryer in the garage and filled the pot
with oil before proceeding to light the burner so that the oil would 
heat.  I had been warned (according to the instruction manual) that the 
heating process would take considerable time and, to distract myself 
from the arriving guests, I printed off my burgeoning novel thinking 
that I would have the opportunity to read, finally, my heated writings 
of the previous days nights. 

After dipping the turkey into the oil, splattering a considerable amount
of the hot substance onto the garage floor – it seemed that I had 
overfilled the pot - and after my wife had brought out the first rye 
and coke, I began to read. 

The first several chapters, written many months ago, flowed nicely, the
plot-line was familiar as I had obsessed over it long enough, and 
character development was clear – my hero was a sweet but clueless 
youth – and building well. 

A second rye followed the first.  A part of my mind, not distracted with
self- congratulation, dimly noticed that the oil was bubbling and 
splattering somewhat more than it should but, being a novice, I 
disregarded it. 

A third rye appeared and was consumed before I got to the parts written
on the previous days. 

It was as if a great dividing line had been written through my budding
manuscript, the break could not have been clearer had I struck a crayon 
across the centre of the page. 

My sweet, goofy, loveable character was suddenly transformed from a
focus-less youth to a man with a mission: to bed every available female 
within his line of sight. 

And so he did, with sickening and graphically rendered regularity, for
page after heaving page.  Bouncing blonde after orgiastic brunette, he 
seemed to have no preference as to type, he ploughed through every 
fictional female introduced so far with insatiable need. After 
exhausting that potential, and in order to satisfy his boundless lust, 
it seemed that I had begun to create new characters for him to bed 
down.  Female characters created with such harrowing physical 
dimensions that you almost forgave the author, me, for any lack of true 
depth.  Their purpose, their sole reason for existence it seemed, was 
clear: to slake the insatiable lust of my suddenly satyr-like hero. 

So engrossed and repulsed was I in the description of the attributes of
a comely cheerleader (whom I dimly recognized from my own youth) that 
the sudden pop emanating from the deep-fryer barely registered. 

What did register was the blaze of heat springing forth from the centre
of the garage. 

The deep-fryer was on fire. 

Hastily, I dropped my manuscript into the pooling grease and drunkenly
spilled my latest rye and coke onto the flames.  This ill-thought act 
only served to spread the fire dangerously close to the propane tank.  
That the tank would explode at any minute was a foregone conclusion. 

My only hope at this point was that, if the fire should spread, my
manuscript would go up in greasy smoke along with the garage and me.  
That I should be caught dead with this filth on my computer hard-drive 
was bad enough, to be avidly reading my own rollicking trash at the 
moment of my demise was awful.  Clearly this conflagration was a 
foretaste of the fires awaiting me in the special hell reserved for 
Writers Who Unwittingly Write Bad Smut. 

Galvanized by the nearness of sudden death, I staggered to the garage
door and courageously yanked the fire extinguisher off of the wall.  
After I had emptied its contents onto the pot of still boiling oil, the 
fire was out. 

Later, at dinner, I drunkenly stumbled my way through the Lord's Prayer,
said over the charred and foam coated turkey, with all the zeal and 
fervour of the newly converted.  I had learned.  A break in my writing 
routine had almost turned deadly.  That night, after the guests had 
left and I was sopping the grease and scattered papers from my garage 
floor, I was tempted to delete the offending passages from my 
manuscript, but stopped myself.  Wild and unrelated to the theme of the 
novel as they were, they represented work.  Perhaps they could be 
salvaged, turned into something usable.  Yes, in fire was forged steel. 
 Certainly a few scraps of this mindless dross could be turned into 
something approaching iron. 

It seemed, though, that not only was the turkey fire extinguished, but
some essential element of creativity had been quenched as well. 

The next day, in the break room at work, I couldn't write a damned thing
to save my own soul.  Not a single literary comma escaped from my 
swollen head.  All that spewed forth onto my PDA was heated imaginings 
regarding the size and putative firmness of my table-mates fundaments.  
Smut and more mindless drivel practically ate a hole through my PDA, 
its vileness was that corrosive.  It was all I could do to keep my 
composure. The only thing that I was aware of was my intense need to 
satisfy a physical urge along the lines of my suddenly transformed 
character. 

I was blocked. 

I couldn't even write properly at my desk.  Everything, even supply
orders, had suddenly become tinged with a hidden smut-laden meaning.  
My co-workers were growing suspicious as, formerly enthusiastic about 
writing even the most mundane memo; I fobbed off routine emails onto 
the intern. 

Determined to give it one last try before I did something rash, I opened
up a report that was past due.  A particular passage, one concerning 
system edits was especially troublesome as, on the whole, they worked 
well but required some fine tuning.  System edits were dry, about as 
far from the flesh as you could get.  A delicate touch, appropriate 
wording, was needed in order to bring the spirit of the issue to life, 
yet retain some sense of proportion. 

To my astonishment, I was able to wax eloquent about system edits. 
Providing that system edits had the hips of a Barbie doll and 38DD cups 
that jiggled alluringly when they... 

You connect the dots. 

I was ruined. 

My literary life was a shambles and my work-life was turning
pornographic. 

At home, after successfully evading all written forms of work, I tried
in desperation to return to the heated flight I had felt over the 
weekend, this time channelled towards actual effort on my novel. 

I sat, staring blankly at the computer screen.  Not a single word,
pornographic or otherwise, escaped from my fingertips. 

Truly at wit's end, I picked up the phone and called a buddy of mine.  A
nice fellow to have a beer with.  A man's man.  The kind of guy who 
would rather slather on more deodorant than have a shower.  He doesn't 
understand my desire to write, preferring instead the music of the 
wrench and pneumatic drill to the flow of words and the clacking of 
keyboard.  Nonetheless, he'd tell me like it is. 

After I described the situation to him he provided me with a simple
solution that was simple yet elegant.  Stunned, I couldn't believe that 
I didn't think of it myself, it was so absurdly easy. 

"Pete, you need to get laid," he said baldly. 

Not an insurmountable issue, I thought.  After all, I had a perfectly
willing wife upstairs who, by her accounts, was hale and hearty again 
and ready to participate in my advances. 

Effusively, I thanked him and raced upstairs. 

It was interesting.  We did end up leaving the lights on as, in my haste
towards consummation, I neglected to turn them off.  I also discovered, 
I think, what the man's left hand was doing and why it was hidden 
underneath the covers.  By all accounts, my wife seemed to be grateful 
for my imaginative attentions. 

The next day, raging hormones back under control, I committed the
weekends work to electronic oblivion and I slowly pecked out 449 words 
of my novel.  My character now back to his loveable goofy self. 

Not to think that there were no lessons learned here, however.  I have
decided to consciously alter my writing routine to included measured 
doses of literary fiction in order to prevent a repetition of the 
weekend's disasters.  Tonight I'll be reading some of Hemingway's 'Old 
Man and The Sea' hoping that his comparative terseness will rub off on 
me.  The next night, I'll be reading Lebowitz, hoping that some of her 
wit and pointed observations will merge with mine. 

But, most of all, I think I'll save that book somewhere.  Somewhere
where it will be safe and not fall into unsuspecting hands.  It's 
golden, you see.  For a brief burning moment I was full of life and 
energy.  I was a writer ablaze with a gift.  True, a writer of tainted 
smut but nonetheless still a writer, free as a bird and on the wings of 
his muse.  For a brief shining moment I had soared.  The book had 
forced me out of my routine and gave me some good ideas.... 

Both in and out of writing. 


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