The Writer

One of my best friends, Homegirl, and I have this running joke. We always remind each other that we could never marry a writer because it just wouldn’t do to be with someone who would be more dramatic and emotional than we are. Of course, this writer we are talking about is a stereotypical one. He wears black-rimmed glasses, is a caffeine-a-holic, is always brooding, and always intensely releasing the agonies of his soul through his writing. Here is a fully fleshed-out account of the content of our joke:

Brooding in a dimly lit corner in the study of an apartment, in a student-ghetto complex filled with graduate students, sits the writer.

The only light in the room consists of the glow of his laptop screen and the streetlight that shines through the window, creating an eerie cast over his pale skin and black-rimmed glasses. He runs a hand over his unruly dark hair and sighs deeply as he stares at the blank Word document screen before him. The cursor blinks unceasingly, taunting him.

He rubs at his bag-laden eyes, red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Scattered about are empty venti-sized Starbucks cups, drained of coffee he could barely afford to drink. He is trying to do what he supposedly does best—write. But inspiration is lacking. His muse has been uncomfortably silent. He has nearly spent himself, trying to reach into the depths of his tormented soul—tormented by the same demons that torment writers and artists and musicians and all those of the creative bent—to draw out that one nugget of raw, unadulterated impetus that he could always depend upon to get him going, to get his thoughts rushing from brain to fingertips like adrenaline-laced blood through his veins.

But lately, he has turned up nothing. Every attempt he makes seems futile, and, there, in the solitude of his study, mesmerized by the emptiness of the Word document, he finds himself sinking deeper and deeper into the abysmal abyss of losing his writer-identity forever.

A timid knock at the door jolts him into existence. He remembers his girlfriend said she would come over at about this time. She was a waif of a thing, almost like the wind could blow her away, he thinks, remembering the time they met at the reading held by the Creative Writing department. He could feel her eyes burning into him as he read an excerpt from his unpublished novel. Though she had the air of a complacent child at times, her intensity about things, about life, was what had initially attracted him. But no, she is not what he needs now. Not right now. Not when his grasp on the craft that has become a part of him is so weak. Not right now, he almost says aloud as he opens the door.

“I brought you some peanut butter cookies,” she whispers. “Your favorite.” She hands him a freezer bag bulging with them. He takes them and mumbles a greeting as he stands back to let her inside. It is as if he forgets she is even there as he goes back into his study to take up staring at the empty screen again. She cautiously follows him. “Are you uhh . . . going to try some?” she ventures. His back is to her as he sits slumped before the computer. No answer. “Baby, what’s wrong? You can tell me.” Her voice is soothing, almost musical, and she lays a soft hand upon his shoulder. He stiffens.

“No.” She doesn’t realize that his “no” is not really a refusal to tell her what is troubling him. At this moment, it’s more of a refusal to entertain any living entity in any manner whatsoever.

“Oh, it’s okay, baby, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. It just seems as if--”

He suddenly lifts his hand to silence her. “No . . . not now,” He says brusquely. Doesn’t she understand? His identity is slipping away from him and all she has to give in response are empty words and peanut butter cookies? He just needs to be left alone.

Tears well up in her eyes. How can he just shut her out like that? She has always been there for him, been his emotional support. She was always able to calm him, to soothe his mental anguish. “But honey, I--”

“NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!” He spins around in his chair to face her. Though his voice is harsh and bellowing, one could sense a tinge of desperate pleading in it.

She flees the apartment, sobbing, and slams the door behind her.

Brooding in a dimly lit corner in the study of an apartment, in a student-ghetto complex filled with graduate students, sits the writer, alone.

(That was for you, Homegirl. Love ya much!)