Writer's Block

The universe of stories, like the universe of matter, is constantly expanding. Its gasses, sometimes garbled and confused, often twisted, flow and form spontaneous order. The universe of stories is one of possibilities. It is a place where the known and the unknown meet and mingle; where the things that are impossible become real, and reality becomes an impossibility. This universe is populated by characters--lives that live always in the moment; lives that bend reality; lives that exist beyond physics and defy all reason. The existence of these characters is more vibrant and real than the lives that exist in the physical realm.

On most days, the universe of the imagination maintains careful separation from other, more rational and more profitable universes. Every now and then, however, the galaxies drift too close to one another, catch each other through gravitational attraction, and collide. The laws of physics blur. The lines between imagination and reality intertwine.

John Fellows was a creator of worlds. He added to the substance of the universe. Entire civilizations owed their existence to him. The people he created through his stories, even the dead ones, existed in the vast universe of stories. John Fellows, a benevolent creator, loved every one of them and reveled in the process of creation. But John Fellows had not written anything--not a single word--for exactly twenty-seven days, and why should today be any different. What difference would another day make? His agent would be just as mad today as he was yesterday, and would probably be just as frustrated tomorrow if John continued not to write, and so things were perfectly fine. It was not that John did not want to write. It was rather than he had nothing more to write about. Having written so many stories and written them in such a way that they bared the soul of the writer to the physical universe, he had exhausted himself to the point where his soul no longer took pleasure in being the subject of discussion. His soul, John felt, had packed its bags and abandoned him twenty seven days ago, and he had not written a word since.

Perhaps, thought John Fellows, I should have a cup of tea. He really did not want any tea. It was just another excuse to delay. John Fellows boiled some water on the stove. As he waited for the kettle to scream, he searched for tea. Finding no Earl Grey, he settled for the less desirable English Breakfast tea. He brewed it dark, poured it in a blue mug, and returned to his keyboard. He stared at the blank screen. No words formed in his head. Perhaps, he thought, he should edit instead. He pulled a random draft from a manila folder and grabbed a pencil. He began to read. The words were familiar, but failed to coalesce in his consciousness. He made a mark here and there, haphazardly. He changed “an” to “the” and “blue” to “azure.” He removed unnecessary words and looked for places to eliminate commas, which he eschewed. He broke up long sentences into staccato bursts, changing the rhythm of the story and thus its meaning. He added to its ambiguity. He read it over, and realized that no one would understand it. He crumpled the pages and threw them away.

It was so difficult to write anything, or at least to write it well. Short stories were particularly difficult, given the limitations of developing characters and plots in only a few pages. Pressing symbolism through each paragraph, each word had to be carefully chosen. Making the stories come to life, giving them breath and watching them spiral into an orbit of understanding was. Each idea was a nebula, each story was a new star, each character an orbiting planet, each word an ecosystem. John Fellows created many worlds, and he did it very well, but he had not written anything in a twenty seven days, and he really did not know why.

Then, in a burst of inspiration, the germ of an idea began to form. John Fellows did not yet know what would be added to the substance of the created universe, but he was eager to find out. He took a sip of tea and then began to write. His fingers tapped the keyboard:

Perhaps, thought J. Scott Lewis, I should have a cup of tea. He really did not want any tea. It was just another excuse to delay. He had not written any thing--not a word--for exactly twenty seven days, and why should this day be any different? What difference would another day make? His agent would be just as mad today as he was yesterday, and would probably be just as frustrated tomorrow if he continued not to write, and so things were perfectly fine. It was not that Scott did not want to write. It was rather than he had nothing more to write about. Having written so many stories and written them in such a way that they bared the soul of the writer, he had exhausted himself to the point where his soul no longer took pleasure in being the subject of discussion. His soul, Scott felt, had packed its bags and abandoned him twenty seven days ago, and he had not written a word since.

At that moment, the universe of stories collided with the universe of the real. Two men--one a character and one a real person--emerged in the same moment and same space. Their wills collided.

“Which one of us is real?” asked John Fellows, staring at the man in front of him, sizing him up.

“Of course I am real” said J. Scott Lewis, “You are nothing but a creation of my imagination.”

“I am not so sure,” replied John Fellows. “After all, I was here first, and that would not be possible if you created me.”

Scott Lewis ran his fingers through his goatee. He thought about how to reply. “Are you claiming that which is created cannot precede the creator?”

“Exactly,” said John Fellows. “I was here first, so I must be the creator.”

“How do you know that you were here first?” asked Scott Lewis.

“Of course I was. I have been here the whole time. I was sitting in my study struggling to write.”

“I have not been here the whole time,” replied Scott. “I know that I have been born and I remember that I have lived. Therefore,” he said confidently, “I must be the one who is real.”

John Fellows thought for a moment. He took his glasses off and chewed on the earpiece. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, drawing out the word in a long breath, “I wrote those memories for you. Yes, I recall that I penned that history for you. You may remember the details as true, but they are nothing more than contrivances in my mind, that I set to paper.”

Scott Lewis reeled at this revelation. Could it be that all of his memories, so vivid in his mind--his wife, his children, his career--were merely figments of a writer's imagination? He pondered the implications. It raised some serious questions. “If that is true,” he said, “why did you make me so fat, and with a giant wart on my left side? You could at least have the decency to make me more attractive. And why have you made me suffer so? My life has been anything but easy.”

“Suffering builds characters,” said John Fellows. “ Every writer knows that. It's kind of a cliche”

J. Scott Lewis remained unconvinced. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “you simply think you are the writer because that was what you were written to be. Yes! In fact, now I remember. I was writing a story. You were the main character.”

“At least I was the main character. But I think you have the situation reversed.” John Fellows twirled his classes. A lock of his black hair fell across his forehead. “I had writer's block, and I was--”

“A situation I imposed upon you. Let me see if I can recall what I wrote.” Scott Lewis thought for a moment. “You had not written anything in twenty-seven days,” he said at last. “Your editor was growing impatient. You tried to edit, changing blue to azure, playing with words. You threw everything away.” He recalled the incident with perfect clarity.

“That proves nothing,” said John Fellows. “I could have written it that you remember that.”

J. Scott Lewis raised his voice. It was almost shrill, a teacher's voice. “Would the real writer John Fellows misquote a cliche? That slip is the kind of bad joke I would have one of my characters tell. A real writer would never make such a silly error.”

John Fellows was stunned. What was the cliche? What was the error? He had gotten it right, had he not? He brushed his black bangs out of his eyes. Then he realized. But it was such a minor error. He wrung his hands. “So what?” he cried. “So I got the bromide wrong. What does that prove?”

J. Scott Lewis read the look on John Fellows' face. It was a look of desperation, a look of fear. John Fellows was shaking with frustration. It could not be easy to realize that you are nothing more than a figment in the mind of someone else. It pained the author to see his creation, so stifled now and contemplating his immateriality. With a sympathy that he felt for all of his creations, with the duty of noblesse oblige, J. Scott Lewis tried to help.

“You exist just as much as anyone,” he told John Fellows. “In some ways, your existence is superior.”

“How so?”

Scott Lewis stroked his goatee. “My universe is limited by the physical, by the real. But your universe contains the real and the unreal and all possibilities in between. Your universe is far more expansive than mine. For example, in your universe, you could have wings. You could write and rewrite the laws of physics with every story. You can be anything. I can be only a fat struggling writer.”

“Perhaps,” said John Fellow, “the two of us--we two--write each other. I need you to write me into existence, and you need me to write. In truth, although we are separate, we are one and the same. I am the you that you want to be, and you are the architect of my wanting to be you.”
“Whatever,” replied Scott Lewis. He shrugged his shoulders. He was confused, but willing to stay that way. Such confusion is common when the universe of the writer and the universe of the written collide. Such confusion is also common among writers.

“What I mean,” explained John Fellows, who was doubtless the more insightful of the two men, “is that we create each other. I am the written, so you must create me. You are the writer, and you must have the written in order to be so. Without me you are empty, soulless. Without you, I am nonexistent.”

All that the writer could do was concur. After all, who was he to disagree with his creation? With the argument concluded, the two universes once again drifted apart, separated slowly, repaired themselves and left behind not a trace of the other. The two men--writer and written--also drifted apart. Each went to their respective worlds. John Fellows sat at his desk. He had not written anything--not a single word--for exactly twenty-seven days, and why should today be any different. What difference would another day make? His agent would be just as mad today as he was yesterday, and would probably be just as frustrated tomorrow if John continued not to write, and so things were perfectly fine.