Writer's Block, Part II

It was titled “Dalyn Blackpool’s Notebook.”

It was blue.

It was supposed to be home, but at the moment it wasn’t.

It was, however, the chosen reading material of Nicholas Earthenwhare during his break.

The first page was an organized, bulleted list of seemingly random subjects. Some of them were simple: “Life.” “Death.” “Love.” Others were more specific: “Why does the sun rise every day?” “What can you compare music to?” The handwriting was beautiful, and each statement was clear and concise. Nick shook his head and turned the page, which was a continuation of the list.

The fourth page showed a short haiku poem. The fifth, a longer variation. A few more pages revealed to the unexpected reader still more poetry and ideas. Skipping ahead, Nick witnessed something different. Thirty pages in, every sense of order was lost. Random thoughts and phrases scattered the page in handwriting that would’ve made anyone obsessed with order cringe. Lines and scribbles, thrown everywhere, seemed to mean nothing at all. Arrows threw the reader from one side of the page to the other; doodles attracted the eye; small, two-line or four-line sets of poetry littered every corner. The book seemed to glow with Dalyn’s energy.

Yet, towards the middle, and coming to the beginning of the section of the notebook that was no more than blank pages, a disharmony became apparent. The poetry came to an abrupt halt, save for small, meaningless phrases halfway scribbled out. Question marks ripped through the page. Some small snippets, in quotes, repeated themselves over and over. Finally, one page was dedicated to one pure, simple question, outlined several times in black ink. It was a question with no answer. It was a question with no hope. It was an annoyance to even think about it.

Nick sat back. The only other person in the room was one of his friends, eating lunch and reading the newspaper. He turned around and noticed the whiteboard proclaiming what needed to be done in the store. Suddenly, he sprang out of his chair and snatched a red marker. With it, he repeated the question in screaming red letters, so that it stretched the length of the board. After he dotted the question mark and replaced the cap, he sat down again.

“What is that?” the other person asked.

“To tell you the truth,” said Nick, “I have no fucking idea.”

***

Dalyn sat at home with his head on his desk. He had a condition which was beginning to take its toll on him. Everyone contracts it from one time or another, whether they be prone to it or not.

It is commonly known as Writer’s Block.

Typically, Writer’s Block has a near one hundred percent recovery rate. The ones that don’t recover are hit by a bus the next day or have to have their hands amputated. Unfortunately, it seems hopeless when the one who has the condition is still fighting it.

Dalyn’s brain was usually brimming with ideas. Nearly every one was worked out to its fullest potential. Now, the well of ideas had run dry, and he was puzzled to say the least. Actually, he wasn’t only puzzled about this; he was puzzled about a question he had been asked.

It wasn’t even asked to his face. He had gotten an e-mail with the question. This wasn’t anything new; he was usually e-mailed all sorts of things, interesting stories, mysteries, logic puzzles. Most people knew he wanted to keep his mind sharp. But this particular person had obviously heard of his ability to work things out, and asked him for advice. At the end was the question Dalyn could not answer, and had begun to plague him.

Now it surrounded him, choked his creativity. He could be described as a man who constantly strived to find the answers as a wild animal is in constant search of its next meal. However, it is much more accurate to say he was pissed as hell.

***

Jameson wandered about the store, as he always did. He was an… older adult, which meant that it tended to surprise him every time he went. By the time he reached history, he’d forgotten they had a biography section. Jameson was a Regular in the store. He knew everyone not just by their first name, but their last.

“Mr. Earthenwhare,” he said, passing by Nick setting up a cardboard stand. “M’boy, I seem to have run into a spot of trouble.”

Nick smiled, which everyone has to do when talking to a senior citizen, a baby, or an invalid. “Hel-lo, Jameson. And what do you need today?”

“Well, I bought a book yesterday, see, and well I suppose I hadn’t really bought it, you know, mm, so much as read it here. Well, you see, mm, I seem to be without my reading glasses. I thought, mm, perhaps I had left them here by mistake, daft person that I am.”

“Ah, that’s not a problem,” said Nick cheerfully. “They’re on your head, Jameson.”

“Why, so they are,” said Jameson, patting his forehead and discovering this to be true. “Thank you, mm.” He waddled off.

Nick, meanwhile, began to wonder how long it would be before Dalyn came back in to find his notebook. The answer to his question was already formulating in his mind. Of course, no one could come up with an answer to satisfy the question completely, but anyone could, to put it technically, bullshit one. Sometimes, as he knew full well, that was all that people needed.

***

Three hours and twenty minutes later, his shift was already over. He remained in the store, reading a book he’d just picked randomly off the shelves. As far as mysteries went, it wasn’t half bad. It took him almost twenty pages to figure out who did it. Of course, the question of why would take far longer.

He kept an eye on the door, waiting for Dalyn to come in. Someone that obsessed with writing had to come back looking for his book of ideas. And sure enough, here he came.

There he went, over to Customer Service. He watched the woman there shrug. Dalyn put his hand to his head and walked away, probably thanking her for her time or some such politeness. He walked away out of Nick’s view, doubtless returning to where he was earlier that day. Nick turned a page and continued waiting patiently.

After another three pages, Dalyn walked back to the doors, his fists clenched in frustration. Nick got up and walked over with the notebook.

“Looking for something?” he asked innocently, and Dalyn turned around.

“Yes,” said Dalyn. “That, actually.”

“Very interesting read,” said Nick, taking the notebook out from under his arm. “Bit of an anticlimax at the end, I’d have to admit.”

“Yes, give it here, will you? I have to—”

“Where was it? Wait a minute. The author came up with a very good question towards the end. Lemme see…”

“Hey, hey! I have to get back—”

“Here it is.” Nick turned the notebook sideways. In large outlined and underlined letters was the question.

“I can answer that for you,” Nick whispered.

“Just give me the notebook!” Dalyn said, barely containing his frustration.

“Fine, be that way.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Dalyn snapped his fingers and held out his palm expectantly. When nothing happened, he raised his eyebrows. Nick simply returned the stare, then turned around and broke into a run.

“You bastard!” Dalyn shouted, following him. “You, you idiot! Give that back! That’s mine! Give it!”