Notes from Over the Hill: Recursive

Charles sat at his desk, fingers on the keyboard, staring at the blank page in the word processing program. Nothing came to him. He leaned back in his chair, scowling while he looked at the monitor. He looked around the room. No help. Maybe check my email, he thought, knowing that he had checked it ten or fifteen minutes ago.

He started to open a browser, thinking about checking Facebook, then pulled his hand away. If I do that, next thing you know I’ll be on YouTube watching videos for hours. He pulled the chair forward, sat up straighter and faced the screen. Faced the music.

Then he thought, Yeah, music. Maybe that will help. Of course then deciding what to listen to would stop work. Yeah, like I’m getting anything done now. He put on something soothing, resisting the temptation to check out the podcasts already downloaded but not watched or listened to yet.

Then back to being poised at the keyboard. He started to think about chores needing to be done. He needed to trim the bushes. There were pictures still waiting to be hung.

He was trying to start a new short story. All those characters in his head that clamored for attention when he was driving or in the grocery store stayed silent. All those plot threads unraveling without characters to be in conflict.

Maybe if I start with a name, he thought. So, he began: Abe, Bobby (a different sort than Bob), Charley (no, too close to his own name), Don (not The Don). He continued through the alphabet. Nothing sparked any ideas. Wait. What about Sparks? Nah, too retro SF.

Zed. Zed’s dead, he thought. Zoe. A female lead? Some male writers can pull that off. Not me.

The self-doubt echoed about the room. He got up and went to get something for the headache which was getting worse with the stress. It was cool in the office, so he stopped to put on a sweater.

Sitting back down at his desk, he thought about the computer. Some writers do first drafts on yellow legal pads, in pencil. He chuckled. At least then I’d have an excuse for all this pencil sharpening. For ten minutes or so. Except that I don’t have any classic number two wood pencils. Only auto pencils with half millimeter lead.

His thoughts continued. Some guys still use old typewriters. I wonder if they use carbon paper or just photocopy the pages. He frowned. This line of thought is getting me nowhere. Then he returned to the same line of thought. Maybe, I could dictate it. The computer has a program to record my voice.

He smiled wryly. “I know what you’re doing,” he said aloud to himself. “Just get to work -- NOW.” His voice sounded desperate to him.

Fingers back to the home keys on the keyboard. He began typing: "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

He stopped. Next thing you know I’ll be talking to Floyd the bartender and hallucinating whiskey. He wasn’t sure whether Jack Torrance drank whiskey in The Shining. Or whisky either. He typed “whiskey” and whisky” to see if the spell check dictionary recognized both. It did.

He sighed. All he wanted was to be able to create a thousand words a day. Four pages (double-spaced, of course). He knew that the more he wrote the better his writing would become.

So why can’t I just start something.

He cleared the page and typed: “It was a dark and stormy night.” That’s it. Burn the clichés out of me. “A shot rang out. The maid screamed. A pirate ship appeared on the horizon.” God bless Charles Schultz and God bless Snoopy.

Then he started typing what he was thinking.