M I R A G E
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Writer’s Block Gary Lawrence My wife hovers in my office doorway silent until I sense her, until I feel her standing there, taking up air and space. How long she’s been there, I have no idea. She leans just a bit against the oak door jamb, settled lightly against the milled white trim board, barely there, as if her tight slim body weighs nothing and might blow away any moment. Her feet are poised, not planted, ready for whatever comes next. Fight or flight. The next moments will be key. She clears her throat. Brushes a loose strand of brunette hair from her mouth. I finish my latest sentence, a good stopping point — in the middle of the action, a good place to start back fresh with momentum. I rest the heels of my hand on the edge of my desk. My computer screen is jammed full of black 12-point Times-Roman images on a fake white page, the cursor blinking, calling me already to return, to come back to them. And it’s barely been a second. I’m blocked, you see. I suffer. I suffer from writer’s block. Not the usual writer’s block that most writers suffer from from time to time — no, I’ve got writer’s block of the inverse kind. Instead of being stuck with nothing to say, I’m the opposite. I can’t stop writing, I can’t stop saying it all. Henry James is cheering from his grave – I’m aware of everything around me. Everything. Hyper-aware. So I write. And write. And write. No matter how hard I try, no matter what I try – I can’t stop writing. I write and I write and I write. It’s been weeks since I started — maybe months. I don’t remember the exact time or day or moment it started, or what caused it. The muse must have come over me. Did I ask for this? Wouldn’t you? How many times have you begged her to make an appearance? My muse, she came, alright. She came and she took over. Right now and for as far back as I can remember, I’ve been here, in my office, in my chair, hands posed or tapping my keyboard, writing. Non-stop. 7
