Writer's Block

Mary Montgomery sat at the diner, staring into her tomato soup. She sighed deeply and wondered what she was going to do. She was very desperate to think of an idea, but the creative juices just weren't flowing. "Let's see...” she thought to herself. But Mary just couldn't think of anything. "Writing is hard when you're at the closing of a book," she mused. "The immediate thought in your mind is to finish it, but somehow when you complete the novel you are always unsatisfied. What am I going to do?”

Mary had been vigorously writing a novel about a young man named Ben who had acquired amnesia after a critical head injury in a car wreck. But instead of the cliché act of trying to find his true identity, Mary’s novel told about Ben’s happiness at finding out that he didn’t remember his characteristics. The only thing he could remember about his past life was sadness, and to forget about it he started anew and had succeeded in getting a part in a Broadway musical. Soon, his talents were recognized and Ben was getting opportunities to star in Hollywood motion pictures!

But all that had changed when his past rival coworker, Glen, got wind of his achievements. Glen went straight to the press and told of how after doing drugs, a young man named Ben Watusse had driven away from the work building as a hope of escapism from his bleak life. When Ben’s true identity was discovered, he was devastated, and had then retreated into the Green Mountains to once again run from life’s setbacks. There he met an old hermit named Joshua who taught Ben to take obstacles one step at a time, and not to run away from disappointments, but to instead tackle them head-on.

But now Mary was stuck. She wanted to end he novel with a surprise ending, not the usual "everything works out all right/main character becomes rich and famous/everyone lives ‘happily ever after'" deal. But what could she do? Unfortunately, she had it all set up to be a predictable ending, and no room to make it unique and original. ”I suppose I could kill off one of the characters…” she thought. ”But that doesn’t feel right either.”

Frustrated, Mary paid the bill and walked out of the diner and made her way to the nearby park. As she strolled around the walkway, she gazed at a small, adorable child jumping up and down by the pound.

"Mommy! Look at those purdy birds!”

“Those are called swans, sweetheart,” the mother elaborated.

Mary chuckled at the boy's childhood fascination. Ever since his age she had been obsessed with one goal, and one goal only in her life: write a book and have it published. She was so close, but she just couldn’t finish the task. ”Maybe I should just get it over with, going cliché with the ending. Lots of best sellers are cliché….” But Mary knew in her heart that if she got the thing published, she might as well do it right. ”Besides,” she joked with herself, ”Most people think of us folks from Vermont as boring. I have to do something to put us on the map!”

Absentmindedly debating this decision in her head, Mary walked straight into a trash can.

Immediately, the cute little child erupted into a fit of giggles. “Look, Mommy! She ran right into the trash," he shouted. "What a dummy!”

“Phillip dear, don't point!” the mother chided, “You know it isn’t nice to call people names.” Although in spite of her good intentions, the mother’s sincerity was ruined by her laughter seeping through every other word.

Suddenly, it seemed to Mary that the whole park was snickering at her. Her face burning, she rushed across the path and slumped into a small grotto, wishing that the small shrubs could be just a little bit taller and screen her out completely. Her hiding spot was ruined, however, by bumping straight into a tall man.

Mary screamed in shock, wondering who could possibly want to shuffle between bushes at the moment besides herself.

“Please,” he whispered. “Don't create a scene. I...just want to be alone right now.”

Mary stammered out an apology. “I’m sorry! I--I just wanted to get away from those people for a minute; I never expected someone else to be in here.”

“Well, aren’t we alike then," he laughed softly. What is your name then, if I may ask?”

“Mary Montgomery,” she mumbled. “Yours?”

The stranger hesitated for a moment and then melodramatically answered, “I wish I knew. It’s either Charles or Davis.”

Mary dropped her jaw. Could he have possibly implied what she thought he had? But how impossible was that. I mean, amnesia is very rare; what are the odds of just bumping into someone who is diagnosed with it in a public park? She had just been too engrossed in her work lately. But still...

“D-do you…do you have amnesia?” she stuttered, embarrassed by the ludicrousness of the question.

“Well, yes, actually.” He laughed. “Don’t sound so shocked, it’s not contagious or anything.”

“I know, I know." Mary waved her hand impatiently. "It’s just that…well, this must sound very odd indeed, but I wrote a novel about a man who had amnesia.”

“Really?" The man sounded impressed. "That would definitely be an interesting read; when is it going to be published?”

Mary blushed. “Well, to be more accurate, I’m not exactly...finished with it yet. I have a terrible case of writer’s block. I’m at the conclusion, but I just can’t find a way to end it properly. All the stories that have been written about amnesia usually end up the same old way – man becomes famous, man gets girl, everyone lives happily ever after, etc. I want mine to be, well, different.”

“Ah, so you’re an eccentric.” He grinned. “I like that. There’re so many people just following the crowd, it’s nice to meet a person who knows that isn’t right for her.” There was an awkward pause. “Well then, I suppose you want to hear my story, hoping to help it influence you...?”

“Well, that would be the ideal,” Mary replied, trying her hardest not to sound extremely desperate.

“All right then,” said the man. “I shall tell you my tale.” He smiled.

“Well, around seven months ago I woke up at Bishop Community Hospital. The only thing I thought about was pain. Undeniable pain. I asked the nurse what had happened to me, but the strange thing was that she didn't know either. She replied that I had been brought into the hospital, apparently after a drug overdose. That one statement seemed to bring in blurry feelings and memories of depression and lonliness. I—I knew immediately that I wanted to get away from it. I could vaguely remember my past of drinking and drugs, and didn’t want to have anything to do with it anymore. I wanted to have another…” He paused to find an analogy. “Another canvas to paint on.”

The stranger seemed to be debating something in his mind, and stalled by tracing patterns in the dirt with his shoes. Finally, he broke the silence.

“And, well, this is the part where I tell you the truth. I—I,” he stopped and reddened. “I lied to you. I don’t have amnesia. I use it as a cover-up and pretend not to know who I was before my overdose. It would be so painful for me to go back to that life -- why would I want to start it over again?”

Mary stared in shock. This was so bizarre. Out of all things that could possibly happen to her in life, this was almost supernatural. Meeting a complete stranger who would by chance end her ailment of writer’s block? Why, it sounded like something Miss Clio, the television psychic would tell her! But nevertheless, she had found an answer, and that was the important thing.

“Thank you so much,” she whispered, though her voice was rising in increments after every word. “You've done it, you've really done it! I know what to do! Oh, this is so wonderful, so, so wonderful!” She smiled. “What is your real name, then? I will have to thank you in the opening page of my book.”

The stranger looked shocked at her acceptance of his scheme, but he soon recovered and returned her grin. “Um, Ben,” he plainly responded. “Ben Watusse.”