I can’t put it off any longer. I waited all day, but inspiration never hit. Resigned, I sit at the desk flip open the laptop and open another Word document. I am at the point where I need to write something, anything to honor my commitment. I stare at the blank page and try to type. Words appear on the screen. Words I write and delete and re-write. Ten minutes later I have a whopping seventy words starting back at me.
I sigh. I will be here all night. Someone else sighs in the empty room. She is here, reading over my shoulder.
“Um, I’m writing here.”
“Ha! You call that writing? Oh, before you get all indignant with me. Yes, you could call it writing, but it is far from good. I know, I know. You are trying. And you know how much I hate it when you beg. So, do you want my help?”
“Great! Well! We are not writing that skatá. Open a new document. A new document. A new document. Please.”
I watch as she spins around the room, her robes billowing behind her as she sings the words at me. She drops into the wingback chair, drapes a naked leg over the arm and peers back at me.
“Well?” she asks.
“Word says ‘Not Responding’ and the little curser thingy is spinning.”
“Word is talking to you, darling, Not me,” she says as she waves a hand in my general direction and document number thirteen opens.
“Fabulous, darling, now we begin.”
She dictates, and I type. I throw in an occasional suggestion and sometimes she smiles and tells me to write. Time does not exist but the words accumulate. I read it back and check for my “clumsy mistakes”.
“This is good,” I say when I finish reading.
“Yes, it is. You are not dealing with an amateur,” she says and dramatically flips her scarf over her shoulder.
“Would you mind helping me with the other piece?” I asked without looking at her. I am too busy hitting the save button.
“What? That wretched thing you were mangling?”
“Well, yes. If you could just give me a few pointers?”
She puffs her cheeks and lets the air out with a pop.
“I am too good to you.”
“What are you trying to say?” she asks.
With that bit of urging it spews, and I discover, to my horror, that I have a bad case of verbal diarrhea.
“Cut it out, cut it out,” she says bouncing up and down behind my chair and pointing at my screen.
“Sorry, is it that bad?”
“No, no, no. Cut out the part there and write what you said.”
And we are off again. And once again I re-read and hit save. It is amazing what I accomplish when she is present.
“Are we finished?” she asks as she places both hands in the small of her back and leans backward.
“Oh, wonderful. Any peeled grapes for me darling?”
“Pity. The day job is such a grind,” she says and walks over to the couch.
“You realize it is midnight?”
“So, I do a little moonlighting,” she says as she snuggles into the cushions and pulls the throw over her, “but only for the brightest and most promising.”
“I bet you say that to all your devotees.”
She gives me half a smile and taps her right index finger twice on her temple.
“Same time tomorrow?”
There is no response. The couch is empty, and I smile at the crumpled throw.
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer