"Well, wasn’t that a refreshing little vacation?" I wrote out on my new Palm/Pilot/Visor, with its clever fold-away keyboard.
"I call it a Palm/Pilot/Visor because if I called it a Pilot that wouldn't be right, because it's a small machine to write on, not a pen; the pilot pen folks noticed that when they sued the Pilot-the-machine-that-writes -people, so the name changed from "Pilot" to "Palmpilot" to "Palm". Then the guy who invented the Palm sold it to 3Com and went off to invent a new machine with the guts of the old one, but some improvements, including memory modules you can snap in and out. The new machine is called the Visor, but it still looks like the Palm and runs Palm programs and so I think of it like ...
At this point Ebenezer Richtors-Bloch wandered over and read what I had been writing.
"This sucks," he remarked with that amiable superiority that all Richtors-Blochs have. "This sucks big time. Look how you start out, ‘Wasn't that an amazing little vacation?' like you planned it. Too cute for words." He gave mock shudder. "And then you launch into this long explication of the Visor/Palmpilot, which interests nobody, and which if I’m not mistaken you already wrote a few weeks ago. You know that your worst quality as writer is your fascination with the mundane. You flit from one trivial topic to another. I've always said if you can't write better than this, you shouldn't write at all." He looked at me appealingly. "You know I only have your best interests at heart." I nodded, the urge to write already draining away from me.
It was true; I had known Ebenezer Richtors-Bloch for years and he is both truthful and accurate, although I am the only one who can see or hear him. He says the facts as he believes them. He means well. He resembles a young William F. Buckly and/or the comic Dennis Leary - when he doesn't take on the accents and appearances of my best friends or beloved relatives. As I said, he means well, but he only remembers, or repeats those true facts which make it impossible to write.
"I'm only saying these things for your own good, Bill; I wouldn't want you to humiliate yourself. You know people only read what you write out of pity, or to laugh at you. You've never really written anything with enough quality to be considered professional."
I nodded dumbly, and yet I kept writing. It wasn't as if we had never had this conversation before. Ever since I had started putting words down on paper my invisible friend had appeared to me with his siren's song of defeat. If I ignored him I could finish; if not ...
"You do know what a fraud you are, don't you? Every other word you write is stolen from Gore Vidal, Robert E. Howard, H.P. Lovecraft or Leslie Charteris. Your best ideas were given to you by friends - every character you've created is ripped off or based on some other character. You don't write, you just paste things together."
He stopped for breath; his knobbed finger, so much like my own, but twisted, traced the line of my writing with a discolored, broken nail. "Look at what you've just written! This 'Conversation with Writer's Block' is obviously based on the confrontation Mark Twain imagined with his own humanized conscience; or is it based on that brilliant cartoon Shari Flenniken did showing the censorious voices that echo in her own head whenever she sits down to draw? Either way it's plagiarism - trite, shallow and passe." Richters-Bloch was always so sure of himself; much surer that I shouldn't write than I was that I should. Still I plugged on; as I began to pick up speed, Richters-Bloch changed his attack.
"Say, this stuff isn't bad. You may have a touch of the old genius yet. Too bad you aren't being paid what it's worth. You're whole career you've given your best stuff away - people have made a fire sale of your talent. And are they grateful? Does anyone even know who you are? I think not." I rested my head in my hand, trying to block out the hectoring voice.
"Are we tired then? I think we are. After all it's late. Take a little nap; start fresh tomorrow. What's the point of getting this in by Tuesday? You're already soooo late. No one's even checking on your page anymore.
"You've had the flu for two weeks; you crashed your car; your wife is sick; the bank wants to foreclose on your house; Michigan is buried under 17 inches of snow; you're working two jobs to make ends meet - Why, nobody expects you to finish the thing; what do they think you are, Friggin' Superman?" As his voice crescendoed to this self-righteous pitch, I leaned back in my chair.
"You can stop now," I muttered. "It's done. I finished it." He stared in shock.
"Done? What do you mean, DONE?" He seemed to be trying to say something more; perhaps get me to put it aside for a few weeks, but as he read the last sentence he gave a strangled scream, reeled backward and clutched his chest; then suddenly he turned to dust, scattering himself upon the floor. It was an effect I had borrowed from Buffy the Vampire Slayer ; unoriginal perhaps, but so satisfying.
I read over the finished column, enjoying every hard-won word. It might not be perfect, but it was done. There was only one flaw in my happiness. If I was going to get back on schedule, it was already time to be thinking of next week's column. As I made a new file, and began listing ideas, Ebenezer Richters-Bloch reformed out of his own dust as a grim and transparent spirit.
“Do you really think you can come up with something else so quickly? Of course if you want to slop out something half-assed, don’t listen to me; and besides, aren’t you tired yet? Isn’t it time to walk the dog...?”
As I continued to write, I couldn’t help but suppress a smile - it’s always nice to hear a familiar voice when you’re working.
