I am a victim of Writers' Block.
Not the version most people know. I am not a writer whose muse has deserted him. I don't have a problem with fresh material to write about or some new, clever way to entertain the vast, unwashed masses. I don't have a problem putting words on paper, or more likely, into some form of word processor.
I don't have these problems because basically, I don't write.
My neighbors do.
I live on a block populated with writers. Neophyte wannabes, published veterans, alter egos hidden behind nom de plumes. And I am their victim.
Next door to me is Adrienne -- all these names will be fictitious, mostly to protect me, from them -- a Paranormal Romance writer wannabe. She aspires to the greatness accorded authors like Laurell K. Hamilton, or Sherrilyn Kenyon, or Nora Robert and J. D. Robb (same difference). And she isn't shy about regaling anyone who will listen with unending discourse about her fantastic new fantasy world and her latest plot within it, both cobbled together from scenes and stories of her idols.
On the other side is James. He was born in the wrong century. He fancies himself the next Zane Grey, extolling the virtues of writing about the Wild West the way he thinks it was.
Behind me, across the alley, is Jennifer. She used to be a successful romance novelist back in the 50's, when
True Confessions
and
Popular Love
were the preferred way to break into publishing, but the pills and the booze did a number on her and now it seems she's still living in her glory days, imagining a vast array of adoring fans.
On one side of Jennifer is Stephen, who considers himself a cross between Arthur C. Clarke, Ray Bradbury and Robert A. Heinlein -- essentially, God's gift to Science Fiction. He claims some of his best ideas were stolen for Star Trek episodes and whatever the popular Sci-Fi film of the month is. He keeps talking about how he is going to learn from L. Ron Hubbard and start his own religion, so he can retire.
On the other side of Jennifer are Selma and Henry. They used to co-write adult books for Greenleaf Classics and Liverpool Library. They think "Bondage on a Budget" is one of the cleverest books ever written and they still regularly skinny-dip in their backyard pool.
And all six of these people think my backyard patio and barbeque grill is the ideal place to spend a warm Spring/Summer/Fall evening, eating my food, drinking my booze and talking until dawn.
To be fair, there are four other houses on our block. Their occupants like to come around when the writers aren't there to crab, complain, bitch and moan about the writers. But they're a different story. They're artists.
Like the other day... I came home from my 9 to 5 at the newspaper -- I print them, I don't write them -- to find the delivery van from my local package goods store ready to pull away. I'm a fairly good customer and I know the driver, so I waved and called over, "How's it going, Pete?"
He waves back and tells me, "just great, Mr. Smith," -- I'm not about to use my real name, either -- "I just put it on your tab." And he drove off.
Put
what
on my tab?
I thought as I headed into the house, getting a little concerned, and with good reason. There were four aluminum beer kegs on my back deck that I didn't order. Big ones. I pretty much guessed that they came from the seven people clustered around my grill, from which I could see smoke rising. Which is a bad sign, because it's a gas grill.
Six of them were the usual suspects. The one I didn't recognize was a guy decked out in biker leather. You know, chaps over jeans, muscle shirt, tattoos and a Marlon Brando hat. He was standing with Selma and Henry while she showed him her latest tattoo -- the words "jIHvaD roS" on her shaved mons. She was explaining that it meant "lick me" in Klingon and Stephen was arguing that it wasn't really Klingon but an Anglicized version of it, while James was ogling her nudity and Adrienne was trying to get a better look at the werewolf and vampire tattooed on Selma's ass.
When Jennifer asked "anyone want to see
my
tattoo?" and started opening her blouse, I walked over to the police whistle which I keep by the door for such emergencies.
It only took one blast to get their attention -- and to let the artists know not to come over.
"Okay," I asked pointedly, staring at the crowd, "who the fuck is
that
?"
"Oh, hi, Eddie!" Adrienne greeted me, standing up from Selma's ass cheek inspection. "This is Marvin, my new boyfriend. Marvin, meet Eddie Smith -- my neighbor."
"Cool man..." were the first and almost only words out of his mouth. "Nice pad..." I could smell the dope from twenty feet away.
"Thank you," I told him curtly. "Is there some reason you are all over here on a Thursday night? And will someone please put out the steaks?" I could see they'd nearly reached black.
"Oh! Yeah... sorry," James told me as he turned his attention away from Selma's naked body, to dousing the burning meat with a dry chemical fire extinguisher. "I was supposed to be watching them."
"It's the Walpurgisnacht Concordance, Eddie," Adrienne informed me. "That's why we've invited our local Writers' Guild to come over and watch it."
