Writer's Block

                                                     WRITER’S BLOCK

         Here’s the problem.  In the book I’m writing there’s this guy, I guess you’d call him the hero or the protagonist.    He’s married, no kids, and he’s stuck in a  job he hates, while he dreams of doing other things.  He wants to have some adventures, get out of the box he’s in.

         So the thing is, his wife likes the box they’re in.  And there I’m stuck.

         So anyway I’m sitting there looking at the screen and somebody comes up behind me. He pours himself a drink and sits down, like he belongs there.  “Who are you?” I ask.  He’s making himself at home and he says, “You know who I am.”

         “I do not!”

         “You created me.  Look at me. This is how you wrote me.”

         “Ben?” Yeah it was Ben, all right, even to the scar over his right eyebrow.  So I’m thinking this is a dream, right?  I must have fallen asleep in my chair again. 

         Ben says, “You have to let me out of this book.”

         “It’s going to turn out all right.”

         “Yeah?  How?  I want some changes.  First of all, this wife you wrote for me.  She’s not my type whatsoever.  She’s a real pain if you want to know.  Plus you never wrote me any sex life.”

         “It’s not that kind of a book.”

         “All right it’s not x rated but does that mean I never get to -- all right forget that for now.  You write me hating this job and frankly I kind of like it. And as for wanting to go to Alaska there is no way I want to go live in a wilderness.    In the second chapter you write me this long whiny speech about how my life isn’t going the way I want and make me sound like a real crybaby who doesn’t know when he has it good.”

         “But - “

         “So listen.  Rewrite Marge all right?  Make her real sexy.  Give her some verve.  Write her some new clothes, sexy clothes, and describe how she looks in them.  Let me have some fun!  Is that too much to ask?”

         “Maybe not, but this isn’t a book about -- “

         “This is a book about people isn’t it?  So then it’s a book about sex.  You can’t have people without sex.”

         “So you want me to write scenes where you -- do it?”

         “Yeah.”

         “You don’t think the readers will surmise that?”

         “I’m not the reader. I’m the guy in the book and surmised sex is not much fun.”

         “You mean get -- explicit?”

         “Sure.  The way you write my marriage Marge could be wearing footsie pajamas to bed. “

         “What do you want her to wear?”

         Ben grinned.  “You mean besides nothing?”

         “This is not that kind of a book.”

         “It’s about me. Don’t I get anything to say?”

         “You aren’t real; you’re a character in a book that might not even ever get written the way I’m going.  This is my book and I get the say.”

         “If I have to live in this thing for three hundred pages I think I ought to be able to make some of the choices.  You write me a wife and you don’t let me sleep with her.  You write me a great job and then write me going on and on about how I hate it.“

         “Look, Ben, take it or leave it.  I call the shots because I’m the author.”

         “Maybe you do, maybe you don’t.”  He grabbed my chair and rolled it to one side.  Then he sat at the keyboard and started typing.  I wrote him way bigger than me so I couldn’t stop him. 

         Then he was gone.  I read what he had typed:  "Ben decided he had enough.  He said,'that's it.
I'm outta here.  Get somebody else  The end.'"