I'm a writer, not a very good one, but a writer nevertheless. Or at least I was a writer. For months I've stared at a blinking cursor which signified my inability to write any further. I've put it down for a while, tried writing the ending and working backward, changing writing locations, writing one hundred words a day, any trick I've read of or thought of. It's called writer's block for a reason. I was months behind on a book I had contracted to write almost a year ago. I had written, and rewritten and written yet again well over half of it. My editor in New York was clamoring for more, to the point of my just not taking her calls. I'd written a dozen of these things and I thought to myself, not for the first time, that the fount of imagination had run dry.
So I picked up and moved, taking a cabin, or cottage or whatever you wanted to call it. It had been a caretakers place for a good-sized farm with a large house. The couple that rented it to me didn't live at the house full time, using it as a getaway home. They just asked that I check on it from time to time. As I walked the grounds I could only dream of living in that stratosphere. I did okay but I'll never get rich writing books. I moved in and went out for a meal. I found a small cafe and ate as I looked around. It was well done, more than I would have expected in such a small town. The waitress was a tall, brown haired beauty.
I asked her, "how many people live in town?"
I got a smile and a reply, "thirteen thousand or so, but a lot of people live in the country. This is dairy country with lots of farms. The county population is much higher. Why do you ask?"
"I'm new here, just trying to find my way. What's your name?"
"Darla. It's an okay town but I'm not an outsider looking in."
I finished my meal and went looking for a grocery store to stock up. I found one and headed home with my purchases. I got organized, unpacked and set up a workspace. By that point it was evening and I sat in darkness on the porch and listened to the frogs in the nearby creek.
I actually got some work done, living without the stimuli of the modern world. I texted Evelyn, my editor, of my change in location and that I was actually getting something done.
She called, "Ryan, that's good to hear. You were starting to worry me. I'm less worried about publication date than I am your mental state. You're not the first writer with writer's block and certainly won't be the last. It's just important to get past it."
A week flew by and I ventured into town again. I drove slowly through town, looking at everything then finally stopping again at The Coffee Cup Cafe. Darla was again working and she smiled at me as she handed me a menu.
"Hello stranger. Back again I see"
"Good morning to you, Darla. How do you remember me?"
"Don't get many new faces in here, so a new face stands out from the ordinary."
I ordered and sat back to people watch. It was a mix of people: guys in small groups, couples, old men doing crosswords, people alone like me. There were four waitresses. Darla was far and away the tallest and also the most friendly, as if she actually liked her job. When she brought my omelet and toast, I asked her,
"You act as if you like your job. Is that true?"
She smiled at me, "I'm a people person. I thrive being around people. Why are you here?"
"I'm for the moment the exact opposite. I'm trying to finish a book I'm writing. I came here to finish it away from all the distractions I had in the city."
"How long ya here?"
"I guess until I finish it, somewhere between tomorrow and a year from now at the current rate."
She smiled again, refilled my coffee cup and walked away. Her ass in the uniform she was wearing was beguiling. She turned to look back and I was busted. She smiled again, winked and walked off.
"So, stranger, do I keep calling you stranger or do you have a name?" She had again come around filling coffee cups and stopped to fill mine.
"Ryan." I found myself tongue tied around a woman twenty years younger than me.
She smiled at my discomfort and said, "cat got your tongue? Do I have that effect on you?"
I told her the truth, "ever since I watched your ass when you last walked away I've been at a loss for words."
She sat down in the booth opposite me. "What a lovely thing to say. I get off at four. Meet me at the gazebo in the park." With that she wished me a good day, told me to pay at the register and was gone.
I found the park and walked it, watching the ducks by the pond. At four a solitary person approached me. She had changed into jeans and a top. "I have to be careful. If I get caught with you it may start the jungle drums as the gossip gang kicks in."
:
We set down on the benches within the gazebo and talked. "Tell me about the city. I was there as a kid but it's been years since that took place."
"I like the city, there's energy everywhere and people on the go. It's thousands of stories being written as people act and interact. I'm a people person as well and that's difficult when you do something so solitary as writing. I've got a group of friends that I see but I had to get away from my everyday life to focus on this book. It's my thirteenth book and it's not been lucky for me. The first twelve seemed to just flow to the screen. I had a good idea of what I wanted to write. This one is hard."