Writer's Block, Part I

People are stupid. This was the thought, more or less, that was going through his mind as he stood behind the counter, drumming his fingers on it. He checked his watch—six minutes until his shift was over. Visions of home began to filter into his mind, which were quickly dispersed by the sinking feeling that someone, somewhere, was about to ask another completely random and irrelevant question.

Someone entered the store. He was practically skipping into the store, actually. This was a good thing. Anyone that enthusiastic had to know exactly what they were going to buy. Maybe their newest cookie-cutter mystery series had just released another two hundred page book of bullshit. Or maybe it was a music album. He glanced at the man again, and decided he wasn’t the type to be interested in anything good enough.

Five minutes.

He sighed. Most days the job was a vaguely borderline enjoyable one. Today had been one idiot after another without any of his coworkers caring enough to take over Customer Service for him. Fair enough, he decided. Apparently, I’m “entertaining.” I can deal with that.

The man slid into his field of vision, which was quite a feat to pull on carpet but was done nonetheless. He looked happy. One of the laws of the Universe, determined the person whose thought processes we are presently following for lack of anything else to observe, is that the worst thing an unhappy person can see is a happy person. There’s just something about enthusiasm that tends to make a really bad day feel worse.

“My name’s Dalyn,” said the happy man, happily, extending his hand. “You are?”

“I’m the Customer Service man that hopes you can shut up and ask whatever it is you want to ask, because he’s leaving in four and a half minutes.”

The sarcasm bounced off of Dalyn’s smile and dissipated into thin air. The man sighed internally.

“Well, good to meet you. Tell me something. I’m looking for a book.”

“You’ve come to the right place!” he exclaimed, extending his arms. “This is a bookstore! We sell books! Don’t tell me you want to buy the one you’re looking for too. God. You might read it or something, and no one wants that!”

“Can you recommend one to me?”

“No, actually!” he continued, his tone of voice unchanged. “But if you give me a Clue, I might be able to help! See, don’t tell anyone else, but I’m not psychic.”

“Great literature!” Dalyn shouted with joy, pounding on the counter. “That’s what I want.”

“Captain Underpants can be found in the children’s section. Don’t worry, we just put it in the wrong spot. Or maybe you’d like to check that section over there marked Great Literature?”

“Thanks! Pleased to meet you!” Dalyn skipped off.

Three minutes, he guessed. Oh, dear God above, let me make it three minutes.

Looking around, he took out his iPod and plugged it into the computer next to him. The computer’s sole purpose in life was to aid in searches for books. Unfortunately, this meant the whole title had to be known, first off, which was nearly impossible. He found it much more useful to watch episodes of Blackadder.

“Hi, again,” said Dalyn, behind him.

“Oh, Lord,” he whispered to himself. “Yes, Dalyn, old buddy, old pal, what do you want this time?”

“Well, do you have anything more modern? The books in Great Literature are kind of dated.”

“Dalyn,” the man said, grasping his shoulder, “I’m going to let you in on a little secret. The only reason why Great Literature even exists is because no one understands a goddamn word the guys said or wrote when they were alive. Only after they’re dead and decomposing do people ever decide to publish it, because if it makes no sense, it has to be Great. Understand? If you want modern, look anywhere else. It’s a big store.”

“Can you recommend anything?”

“Yes. How about a book? Oh, dear, it looks like I’m done with my work shift. Good luck. Have fun. Next victim!” he shouted to the store at large, in the hope that the next person would hear him.

***

The next day came, as they tend to do. The man returned to work with a box of donuts, because donuts have the magic ability to improve anything. Through skill acquired only by years of working in bookstores, he combined drinking coffee with reorganizing the computer section. It was after this that he found Dalyn unconscious in a chair a few shelves away.

A glance was all that he needed to see that Dalyn had overdosed on books. They littered the floor at his feet—anything from non-fiction to fiction, from educational to moronic, from historical to futuristic. He chewed his donut thoughtfully as his eyes fell on Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People, which was resting on Dalyn’s chest.

With great care and taste only acquired only by years of working in bookstores, he picked up The Mini Book of Zen and slapped Dalyn’s forehead with it. After a few moments with no movement from him, the man went to find the manager.

***

Dalyn’s eyelids slowly opened. He was aware of a dimming sting on his forehead, but ignored it. Brushing off Carnegie’s book, he sat up and tried to remember where he was. Colors filled his vision, all of them blurring together into one incomprehensible puddle. Voices began to filter into his hearing, the dull murmur of many people trying to be quiet at once. Books and people were everywhere, he noticed, trying to shake the confused visions of color from his mind.

More alert now, he began to take notice of small, pale glows around the people. Eventually the annoyance of these unfocused hallucinations would dissipate, but for now, they clouded his sight and only helped the confusion that was already in his overworked brain.

Over to his left, he noticed two people talking, one of which he recognized as the friendly person at Customer Service the other day. Around him was a beautiful indigo field of color. He glanced over at Dalyn and seemed to finish up his conversation.

“Donut?” he asked, walking over and extending a hand with a chocolate one. “I thought you were dead or something.”

“Sorry,” Dalyn murmured. He shook his head. “Just a moment. I’m waking up still.”

“Hmm. See, here’s the thing. Most people buy the books, then go home and fall asleep on their own furniture. That’s the theory, anyway. You want the donut or not?”

“You’re very indigo,” Dalyn said, more to himself than to the man.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing, uh”—he glanced at the “Hello, My Name Is” card—“Nick. Sure. I’ll have the donut.” The colors were beginning to fade back into normality, and the world plunged out of the sea of confusion that choked it mercilessly. Dalyn, for the first time, realized how foolish he looked.

“If you think you look like an idiot,” said Nick, “that’s because you do.”

“Thanks,” said Dalyn. “Helpful.”

“By the way, don’t forget to put the books back where you found them. You know. All... six, eight, eleven of them.” As he turned to walk away, something caught his eye. “Actually, I’ll take care of these. Just, go home, maybe get some sleep, you know.”

Dalyn nodded. “I wish I could,” he commented, raising from the chair. “I’ll, uh, see you later probably.”

“Doubt it,” said Nick simply, lifting the pile of books. He watched Dalyn walk out of the store out of the corner of his eye.

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!”

Writer's Block, Part III

With a squeal, Nick slid into the break room and tossed the notebook at the whiteboard. Seconds later, Dalyn raced in.

“Give it here!” he yelled. Nick simply pointed to the board, where it rested. Above it, the question shouted out to Dalyn, the one that he had been obsessing over for the past few days: “Who am I?”

Dalyn grabbed his notebook and turned to leave. “You honestly think that you, that you, can answer that?” he exclaimed, pointing to the board. “If I can’t, as far as I’m concerned, some ignorant person isn’t going to.”

Nick strolled over to the board. “Catch,” he said simply, tossing a bright blue marker over to the man. Dalyn caught it with his free hand.

“Write,” said Nick, indicating the board.

“I can’t write! That’s just it! If I could write, everything’d be normal again. But that damn question!”

“Why do you care about the thing anyway?” Nick inquired. “It’s just a question. Everyone’s got one.”

“Yes! But!” Dalyn sighed. “It was sent to me. By a fan. Everyone sends me questions just to try and see if I can’t answer them. And I do. I answer every one of them! But then someone goes and sends me their damn life story and ends it in that. And what am I supposed to say to that?”

“How about ‘I’m a busy man, go bother someone else?’”

“But then if I ask it to myself I still don’t know the answer!” Dalyn leaned against the table, staring down. He picked his head up again and gave the question a glance before turning his head away from it.

“That’s easy,” said Nick. “Any idiot who read your notebook knows exactly who you are.”

“Oh really? And who’s that?”

“You’re a poet, Mr. Blackpool. And by the look of things, a damn good one. Now write something.”

“I can’t write!”

“Yes, you can! You’re a poet! That’s what you are! And poets write! So write something!”

“You’re an ass,” he murmured.

“What?”

“I just want to go home!”

“And you’re going to be better off there, are ya?”

“Well, no…” Dalyn turned to the board again.

“Write something,” Nick whispered. “Write anything. No one cares what. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He left.

Dalyn uncapped the marker, the pop audible in the silence of the room. He wrote something. It was corny. But it was something.

***

Nick had lied. Well, he hadn’t exactly. No one really defined what “a moment” was. It’s never been a unit of measurement. It’s mostly a polite way of saying “when I feel like it.”

And Nick felt like checking in on him about two hours later. He entered the store again with Chinese food and sat next to a bookshelf. Jameson walked past and had a rather intelligent conversation about the fact that his television wasn’t working, which ended in him determining that he did not, in fact, own a television.

His manager commented on the proper places one should be eating, which did not include the floor of the bookstore he worked in. A moment later—that is, when he felt like it—he moved over to a table of books, pushed a few aside, and sat there.

Something caught his eye. It was Dalyn Blackpool, asleep in a chair on the other end of the store. With a comment about déjà vu, he stood up, replaced the books, threw out the Chinese, and went over to see.

Yes, that was him all right. His five o’clock shadow, wrinkled eyelids, and completely disheveled suit all contributed to the look of a very tired poet, or a homeless man that stole a suit. He glanced at his notebook, which was open to two full pages of solid poetry. Curious, Nick quietly ran over to the break room, and discovered the phrase “I’m a poet and I didn’t even know it” in indigo on the whiteboard. In smaller text was the phrase “How stupid am I?” He laughed and erased it.

Tapping the sleeping author on his shoulder, Nick watched Dalyn’s eyelids flutter. He opened them fully, and looked over at Nick.

“Good evening,” said Nick cheerfully. “Have a good nap?”

“Yeah,” grunted Dalyn. “Just a moment. I can’t see.”

“Contacts?” Nick wondered.

“No, it’s like… I just see a mess of colors everywhere. Total mess. I mean, it’s all over the lights, and around people, and sometimes even in words. You know what I mean? When you just wake up?”

“Sure,” Nick said, confused.

“I just want you to know,” said Dalyn, his eyes shut again, “that was the most idiotic answer I’ve ever heard to that question.”

“Thanks,” said Nick. He meant it.

“It worked, though.” Dalyn rubbed his eyes. “I can’t thank you enough. You’re still an ass, I just want you to know that.”

Nick nodded. “Perhaps we’ll never run into each other again.”

“God willing,” said Dalyn. “I’m sure I’ll want to buy some more books, though.”

“Don’t ask me,” said Nick. “You were insane the other day.”

“Yes, well, I was hoping something I read would give me the answer. Something old, or new, or something. Just something deep. Ah, well.” He got up unsteadily. “Thanks for the assistance.”

“Bye.” Nick walked off, pulling out an iPod.

Dalyn steadied himself on the chair’s armrest. He nodded, then gathered his notebook and pencil. After another glance back, he left.

Nicholas Earthenwhare watched the poet leave. “He’ll be back,” he told himself. “He’s just crazy enough.”