Writer's Block
first attempt i ever made at a short story for college
http://www.loserturdmafia.com/
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Fuzz.
“How much does it cost? Fifty dollars? No! Forty dollars? No! If you call within the next six minutes it’s only...”
“And four, and three, and two more, and...”
Fuzz.
Fuzz.
Test signal.
Click.
I sleep.
I wake up in my lavish hovel. Stepping out of bed only to knock my shin into the “kitchen” table. Bottles rattle. For awhile I was poor, then I was an artist, now I claim the title of “starving artist.” It never changes my true status, but I must say it’s a bit of an ego boost. Looks good on paper, you know?
Scratch head, scratch butt, adjust underwear. Piss.
I have a part-time job at the corporate slave master, Kinko’s. I don’t mind the job all that much, but I dislike big business. It comes with the territory. I feel so “grunge rock”. I’m a writer. I haven’t written anything, really. Some little things here and some shitty stuff there. All of my creations end up cataloged in the waste paper basket.
Phone Rings.
Shuffle through the printer paper. Blank pages mock me. There’s the phone.
Phone Ri...
“Hello?”
“Wah-wah-wah...wah.”
“Bye.”
Yes, my mother talks like Charlie Brown’s parents. At least, for this part of the story she does.
Where was I? Today’s a day off. I plan to write for hours on end. My mind is on end for hours. I have stories bouncing around inside my head. One about a little girl, not a day over thirteen. She’s a hooker who has a hair lip and an affinity for Milky Ways.
Knock. Knock.
“Delivery for an Ira Strand...Strandoff...Strandoffski?”
How can I pack so much shit in such a small place? I fumble to the door. Open.
Knock.
Thud.
I awake. I can’t believe I’m being dragged. Shit, gravel. Who is this guy?
“Who are you?”
He stops pulling on my bathrobe. I stumble to my feet. Wiping myself off, as if looks mattered. I notice the man. He’s solid stone, as though he was washed by the river to a smooth polish. He eats guys like me for a between-meal snack.
“What do you want?”
“Come with me.”
“What do you want?” I try to stand my ground.
“Jimmy wants to see you.”
Maybe I left a few things out. I’m indebted to Jimmy. He’s this town’s equivalent of the mob. A pretty pathetic version, but it still hurts no matter who hits you. Jimmy’s only two years older than me and he likes to think of himself as a bad ass. I like to think of him in the same manner, minus the bad. He believes I owe him a favor.
One day not too long ago I was riding my bike. A nice candy apple red piece of shit I found in the dumpster behind the church down the road from my place. I was so happy that I finally had some mode of transportation. There was some work to be done on this trash-turned-treasure, but it’s not like I didn’t have the free time. I fixed it up, hammered out a few dents, and took it out for a test ride.
While I was meandering through the city streets on my cherry of a “chick magnet” bike, I saw a dead cat, tire marks ground into its crushed forehead. It had been there some time. I decided to give it a proper burial, maggots and all.
To make a short story shorter, word gets back to Jimmy that I killed his cat. I explain to him what truly happened. He’s dumb as a rock thus I, not even owning a car to make tire marks, have still some how assassinated his beloved stray.
I’m standing in front of Jimmy. Damn is he sweaty. The big, Bruno-type that brought me there has his not-so-steady eyes on me, making me quite the nervous cat killer.
“Yous owe me a favor,” says Jimmy. He likes to think he’s Italian. The closest he’s gotten to the actual mob is going to Little Italy to eat dinner followed by a night cap of a Sopranos rerun. I’d be more than happy to call him Big Pussy if he’d like.
“What can I do you for, Jim?”
“Don’t be so pre...pretent...full of yourself. I have an idea of how you could repay me for your little mishap. I need you to write me a story.”
“I can’t write.”
“You’re a writer, yeah?”
“I like to think of myself as one. But, no, I can’t write you a story.” What the hell does he want a story for?
“Write one.”
“I can’t.”
“Write one!” Bruno leans toward me.
“Yeah. I can write a story. About anything in particular?”
So now I’m back at my place. Jimmy wants a story written for his girlfriend. It’s for her birthday and he’s cheap. I oblige. No problem other than this damn writer’s block I’ve had for months! I watch television for ideas. I call my mom for ideas.
I pace.
Knock.
Possible ideas may be behind that door. Door opens. It’s only my friend Dave. Dave and I have been friends since we were toddlers. He’s always been the thin, ugly, tall guy. That’s what I’ve always called him, at least. I explain my dilemma and Dave is eager to help.
“How about a teenage girl that’s a hooker?” It seems that great minds think alike.
I explain that the story has to be lovey-dovey.
Dave clarifies, “But the girl has a lisp and the clap.”
The door of ideas slams in my face.
For awhile I forget about my impending doom and play video games with Dave. That’s when I think about not writing the story at all.
“What if I refuse to write it?”
“Can I have your stuff when you die?”
We go back to the old drawing board.
Ring.
I talk to my mom and she saves my ass.
“You know your father and I getting together is a good love story. When I was twenty he was twenty-three. He traveled with the carnival. The first second I saw him it was love. He was wearing a brown suit and had hair down to the middle of his back.”
“That doesn’t sound too great to me, Ma.”
“It was the seventies, Hun. Well, he and I talked all night but he had to leave the next morning. I gave him my address and he wrote me all the time.”
“That’s nice,” I’m half paying attention to my mom and half to Dave getting to level four on Super Contra.
“Then I found out he was getting addresses from all the girls and writing them too. I stayed with him, though. I wanted to forgive him and forget what he had done in the past.”
“That’s kind of depressing,” I can’t write about this stuff.
“He was a fantastic lay, son.”
I took bits and pieces of my mom’s story, sans the fantastic lay part, and ran with it. I gave the story to Jimmy the next day with some notes on what it meant, the deeper meaning, and all that shit that he would never understand. He gave it to his girlfriend who, also, didn’t understand it. She showed it to her father. Her father knew some people who knew some people who knew someone at a publishing company.
Months pass.
Knock.
Open the door. The big, Bruno, rock guy walks in.
“Jimmy wants...”
“OK.”
We go to Jimmy’s office. I sit down in a big leather chair. Since last time I’ve been here he’s refurbished the leather with more leather. Now he’s into interior design? Jimmy walks in the room.
“Yous made me a fag.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yous made me a fag,” he reiterates. “That story. I said I wrote it. That was fine when Gina was the only one reading it.” Jimmy goes on to tell me the journey of my/his story. The five-page marvel that I threw together in a sweaty haste, just to escape a kick to the spleen, had been published. It actually won awards and all Jimmy had to say was ‘yous made me a fag.’ The metaphorical kick in the nuts wasn’t all the fame my story got Jimmy. What does piss me off is Jimmy’s stupid and I still have writer’s block.
“How much does it cost? Fifty dollars? No! Forty dollars? No! If you call within the next six minutes it’s only...”
“And four, and three, and two more, and...”
Fuzz.
Fuzz.
Test signal.
Click.
I sleep.
I wake up in my lavish hovel. Stepping out of bed only to knock my shin into the “kitchen” table. Bottles rattle. For awhile I was poor, then I was an artist, now I claim the title of “starving artist.” It never changes my true status, but I must say it’s a bit of an ego boost. Looks good on paper, you know?
Scratch head, scratch butt, adjust underwear. Piss.
I have a part-time job at the corporate slave master, Kinko’s. I don’t mind the job all that much, but I dislike big business. It comes with the territory. I feel so “grunge rock”. I’m a writer. I haven’t written anything, really. Some little things here and some shitty stuff there. All of my creations end up cataloged in the waste paper basket.
Phone Rings.
Shuffle through the printer paper. Blank pages mock me. There’s the phone.
Phone Ri...
“Hello?”
“Wah-wah-wah...wah.”
“Bye.”
Yes, my mother talks like Charlie Brown’s parents. At least, for this part of the story she does.
Where was I? Today’s a day off. I plan to write for hours on end. My mind is on end for hours. I have stories bouncing around inside my head. One about a little girl, not a day over thirteen. She’s a hooker who has a hair lip and an affinity for Milky Ways.
Knock. Knock.
“Delivery for an Ira Strand...Strandoff...Strandoffski?”
How can I pack so much shit in such a small place? I fumble to the door. Open.
Knock.
Thud.
I awake. I can’t believe I’m being dragged. Shit, gravel. Who is this guy?
“Who are you?”
He stops pulling on my bathrobe. I stumble to my feet. Wiping myself off, as if looks mattered. I notice the man. He’s solid stone, as though he was washed by the river to a smooth polish. He eats guys like me for a between-meal snack.
“What do you want?”
“Come with me.”
“What do you want?” I try to stand my ground.
“Jimmy wants to see you.”
Maybe I left a few things out. I’m indebted to Jimmy. He’s this town’s equivalent of the mob. A pretty pathetic version, but it still hurts no matter who hits you. Jimmy’s only two years older than me and he likes to think of himself as a bad ass. I like to think of him in the same manner, minus the bad. He believes I owe him a favor.
One day not too long ago I was riding my bike. A nice candy apple red piece of shit I found in the dumpster behind the church down the road from my place. I was so happy that I finally had some mode of transportation. There was some work to be done on this trash-turned-treasure, but it’s not like I didn’t have the free time. I fixed it up, hammered out a few dents, and took it out for a test ride.
While I was meandering through the city streets on my cherry of a “chick magnet” bike, I saw a dead cat, tire marks ground into its crushed forehead. It had been there some time. I decided to give it a proper burial, maggots and all.
To make a short story shorter, word gets back to Jimmy that I killed his cat. I explain to him what truly happened. He’s dumb as a rock thus I, not even owning a car to make tire marks, have still some how assassinated his beloved stray.
I’m standing in front of Jimmy. Damn is he sweaty. The big, Bruno-type that brought me there has his not-so-steady eyes on me, making me quite the nervous cat killer.
“Yous owe me a favor,” says Jimmy. He likes to think he’s Italian. The closest he’s gotten to the actual mob is going to Little Italy to eat dinner followed by a night cap of a Sopranos rerun. I’d be more than happy to call him Big Pussy if he’d like.
“What can I do you for, Jim?”
“Don’t be so pre...pretent...full of yourself. I have an idea of how you could repay me for your little mishap. I need you to write me a story.”
“I can’t write.”
“You’re a writer, yeah?”
“I like to think of myself as one. But, no, I can’t write you a story.” What the hell does he want a story for?
“Write one.”
“I can’t.”
“Write one!” Bruno leans toward me.
“Yeah. I can write a story. About anything in particular?”
So now I’m back at my place. Jimmy wants a story written for his girlfriend. It’s for her birthday and he’s cheap. I oblige. No problem other than this damn writer’s block I’ve had for months! I watch television for ideas. I call my mom for ideas.
I pace.
Knock.
Possible ideas may be behind that door. Door opens. It’s only my friend Dave. Dave and I have been friends since we were toddlers. He’s always been the thin, ugly, tall guy. That’s what I’ve always called him, at least. I explain my dilemma and Dave is eager to help.
“How about a teenage girl that’s a hooker?” It seems that great minds think alike.
I explain that the story has to be lovey-dovey.
Dave clarifies, “But the girl has a lisp and the clap.”
The door of ideas slams in my face.
For awhile I forget about my impending doom and play video games with Dave. That’s when I think about not writing the story at all.
“What if I refuse to write it?”
“Can I have your stuff when you die?”
We go back to the old drawing board.
Ring.
I talk to my mom and she saves my ass.
“You know your father and I getting together is a good love story. When I was twenty he was twenty-three. He traveled with the carnival. The first second I saw him it was love. He was wearing a brown suit and had hair down to the middle of his back.”
“That doesn’t sound too great to me, Ma.”
“It was the seventies, Hun. Well, he and I talked all night but he had to leave the next morning. I gave him my address and he wrote me all the time.”
“That’s nice,” I’m half paying attention to my mom and half to Dave getting to level four on Super Contra.
“Then I found out he was getting addresses from all the girls and writing them too. I stayed with him, though. I wanted to forgive him and forget what he had done in the past.”
“That’s kind of depressing,” I can’t write about this stuff.
“He was a fantastic lay, son.”
I took bits and pieces of my mom’s story, sans the fantastic lay part, and ran with it. I gave the story to Jimmy the next day with some notes on what it meant, the deeper meaning, and all that shit that he would never understand. He gave it to his girlfriend who, also, didn’t understand it. She showed it to her father. Her father knew some people who knew some people who knew someone at a publishing company.
Months pass.
Knock.
Open the door. The big, Bruno, rock guy walks in.
“Jimmy wants...”
“OK.”
We go to Jimmy’s office. I sit down in a big leather chair. Since last time I’ve been here he’s refurbished the leather with more leather. Now he’s into interior design? Jimmy walks in the room.
“Yous made me a fag.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yous made me a fag,” he reiterates. “That story. I said I wrote it. That was fine when Gina was the only one reading it.” Jimmy goes on to tell me the journey of my/his story. The five-page marvel that I threw together in a sweaty haste, just to escape a kick to the spleen, had been published. It actually won awards and all Jimmy had to say was ‘yous made me a fag.’ The metaphorical kick in the nuts wasn’t all the fame my story got Jimmy. What does piss me off is Jimmy’s stupid and I still have writer’s block.
