The Doctor's Office

                             The Doctor's Office

         Daron sat staring at his screen. Usually words formed on the page in front of him and he typed to catch up to his mind's production, but today nothing would come.
         Another day of writer's block wouldn't please his hard-ass editor either. There really was no other accepted way to describe her backside. Whatever its lovely shape, still she was known more for her aloof attitude and strict adherence to nearly impossible deadlines.

         "What if I can't write on a schedule like that?" he had asked her when he started.
         "What if you don't ever write at all?" she'd shot back.
         Daron wasn't sure why that motivated him. Ordinarily he would not succumb to browbeating. Something in the way Ms. Rogers said it, though, made him not want to pass up the opportunity.

         Besides, hers was the only publishing firm willing to pay advances based on a mere 5-page short story. His publishers used an average paper stock, but were known for their breathtaking covers. Those covers were what originally drew his interest, just imagining a story of his own wrapped inside such beautiful artwork.
         Two marginally successful novels later, he was stuck. Stuck in a rut and he didn't know why. Daron was recently returned from a peaceful vacation, too. This was not going to look good. He knew a summoning phone call was days away at best. He willed his fingers to type; they ignored his every plea. The imminent phone call arrived with plane tickets.

-*-*-*-

         Samantha Rogers was not a physically intimidating person. In coffee shops she probably elicited appreciative glances. However, sitting in the tidy mess which was her executive office, the knowledge of how much power she had over the making and breaking of careers daunted Daron Nichols.
         It was not that her editing style was judgmental or less than first-rate; in fact, she was known as something of a doctor for her skill in story surgery. He wished she would pace around or something so he could feel like his issues were important to the company. She did not, though. Instead she calmly asked him what was wrong, as if his month-long stall were a problem either easily solved or discarded.

         Usually when people go to speak, they form the words in their mind, and then their voice follows the pattern set by the mind. It was the same technique Daron used to write. And the same as with his writing, his response was inexplicably slow in coming. He only stared back at his editor.
         "Well, Nichols? I do expect an answer, you know, even if it's a stupid one."
         The flippancy of her tone broke him from his self-pity. "Oh, sorry, Ms. Rogers. I seem to be in a funk lately. It'll pass, I'm sure."

         "Sure, are you?" She raised an eyebrow, then stood and walked behind him to the door. It was closed already, so she closed the blinds. Magically, office sounds from the outside reduced even further. It was an eerie feeling, as if they were meeting in a house instead of a busy building floor.
         "Listen, Nichols, you know me mostly as just your editor. A tough one too, so no wonder you don't confide in me. Look, I gave you my honest opinion of your first two works, didn't I? We're not one of those firms trying to milk young talent and throw them out when they're dry. You've got something, even if it hasn't fully come out yet. I can guess from the direction of your final chapter last time, what might be wrong now. Do you even know?"

         Daron thought about his last book, a romance drama set amidst a world war. "No, Ms. Rogers. Perhaps something hopeful?"
         Sam bit her lip, considering. "No. As I thought, you're way off-base. Look, I'm going to call you by your first name for the next ten minutes, and I want you to think of me as something of a friend, not an editor. Okay?"
         "Ummm...okay?" Daron didn't sound too sure.

         She sat on the edge of her desk and interlaced her fingers. "Listen, Daron. There's nothing wrong with your writing. Something in your life's not right, and that's why your internal voice isn't sure what to say. You can't put me off with writing excuses, because I used to be a writer. I know about block -- I've been there -- and this isn't it."
         "But Ms. Rogers, -" Daron began to protest until she cut him off.
         "Sam," she corrected, "and but nothing. You can't fool me. Even if you don't know it yourself, I've been there. I know. Why do you think I'm an editor at this age?"

         He thought about it, though he knew the story already. She had been a college journalist who lost her touch a decade ago. Then she went to the red-ink side of the print business and switched to books instead of news.
         Yet if he looked at her long enough, her familiarity eroded, and he saw an attractive woman who might easily be waiting tables or teaching ballet to kids. He tried to imagine Sam Rogers as care-free but came up empty. "You lost your carefree?" The words just slipped through his lips, even before forming in his mind.

         Sam was not offended, though. Rather, she looked genuinely surprised, either at his word choice or his conclusion. "Well-put. Not something I like to think about, but it's accurate enough. Yes, my 'carefree' is gone, Daron. We weren't married yet, but during the Gulf War I basically lost a husband. Writing somehow didn't seem rewarding anymore. It was my sense of wonder and hope for love that I lost. And like it or not, you're in danger of losing yours."
         "Am I?" Daron doubted aloud. His first two novels were cleverly arranged romance stories nestled inside fine plots and nostalgic settings. Perhaps he'd substituted them for real relationships, and indeed he was lonely.
         "Loneliness will kill that in a person," she said, almost as if she was reading his mind.

         Daron just stared ahead, imagining a grieving Sam with eyes less shrewd. It was not the loss of a potential husband, but the loss of a source of love. That was what had killed her writing career. "Are we so easily derailed?" he wondered, again aloud without his usual mental censor.
         "Yes we are," Sam confirmed. "I'm proud of you though, right now, in this moment. Do you even know you're starting to heal yourself? You're using a coping technique before you're even aware there's a problem. I go to a widows' support group weekly, and we all try to say what's in the backs of our minds, without worrying how it comes out. You have to realize you have more than one internal voice. The one you write and create with is just your conscious voice. There are others, which we sometimes call our fears and worries, subconsciously doing a lot of our thinking. We try to shun them, but sometimes it's better to let them out into the air. See and hear them in the daylight, and you may discover they're not so terrible as we imagined."

         "Christ, you must think I'm an amateur!" Daron frowned. "Writing elegant fantasies for himself, living vicariously through my stories."
         "No, I don't think that," she said very seriously, taking his hands into her own. They were very cool and delicate, as were her blue eyes when he looked up to see her intense gaze. "I told you I loved those stories, and I told you they wouldn't be bestsellers. There wasn't enough magic in them. They were too believable. But look, if I were the whole novel market, you'd be rich, because they touched me personally, Daron. I lived as vicariously in those stories as you might have. You don't have to. You have time. You're young, and can get yourself out there. Going on vacation alone won't solve this funk of yours. Neither will sitting and trying to write while the problem still exists. So I want you to go out and make some new friends. Make some new girlfriends, because you haven't given your heart to any of the recent ones, that's for sure."

         Daron knew the last bit was true because there had not been any recent ones. Beyond cool fingers reassuring his, he saw a smooth leg before him. Whatever else Ms. Rogers might be, she was a woman who felt hurt, too. Suddenly his imagination opened up, and he saw a Sam Rogers from a decade ago, her head thrown back in laughter and a twinkle in her eye.
         He knew she saw something in him, and now he knew what it was. "Sam," he addressed her for the first time as someone other than his editor, "it's not too late for you, either. You may have given up in your mind, but as your mirror should tell you, you're still an attractive woman with a lot to give. You're not that much older than I am. You're not going to inspire me by making me think I'll end up an editor if I don't get off my butt and live." Daron cracked a smile, liking this new feeling of leverage over the previously unassailable image of Samantha "doctor hard-ass" Rogers.

         Sam laughed politely, clapped his hand, and went back around to her swivel chair with a dismissing sigh. "Maybe, Daron, maybe. Just remember you're not alone in knowing what it is to be in a funk that's not work-related. I actually like my work these days. I haven't been merely relegated to something I can do. Now, are we clear?"
         "Yes, Miss Rogers, we are. Go party and find love while I can, right?"
         She laughed to hear it phrased so tactlessly. "Yes, those are my orders. Now don't tell anyone about my support group, or I'll fire you." She smiled mock-sweetly. "Oh, and Daron? Your original deadline still stands. You have three weeks. Make them count."

-*-*-*-

         His plans to visit New Orleans were dashed before he even got off the plane back to his hometown. Words were flowing in his mind, and Daron was busy scribbling on extra napkins provided by the stewardess. His new heroine had delicate doctor hands and intense blue eyes, and was only a few years older than her melancholy soldier patient...