Are you doing anything important, dear?

Jasper and his little dog Prelude balanced precariously at the edge of the mountain’s precipice. Below, a 600 foot drop to their certain death. Only the strength in Jasper’s finely tuned athletic body could save this young athlete and his companion.

There would be no turning back.

 

And then, from the next room comes the inevitable call to arms.

“Harv… Are you doing anything important?”

You were in the process of writing. The creative juices were flowing. One thought after another, depth giving way to further depth, more than you ever thought was in you. And then it happens – the ill-fated interruption.

“Harv… Are you doing anything important?”

In my mind I answer, “Not any more.”

Now I’m sitting there trying to figure out what in the name of hell I planned on doing with Jasper and his dog Prelude.

It’s all gone now.

Not only am I in a state of complete and impossible literary insurrection, I no longer give a damn about either of them. 

I type in the words, “…and they plunged to their grizzly death,” and yell through the speakerphone, “When do we eat dinner?”

My two heroes are gone forever along with my desire to ever continue writing again.

(Well maybe that’s a little too dramatic, even for me. Maybe I’ll try again tomorrow, or even tonight after a couple of shots of single malt scotch. In the old days, I would have talked about opening another pack of cigarettes and working into the night. There were many times a couple of cigarettes would be burning in an ash tray at the same time.)

There is absolutely nothing more debilitating for a writer than to lose a pregnant thought.

I’ve been asked the question: “What about when you were going through your divorce?”

Yeah, sure it was emotional, but it gave me all kinds of things to write about. Bad stuff will usually provide a well of substance. There is also the unforeseen, which emerges generally as the unexpected.

A young person’s question: “I’d like to write about something tragic,” she allowed.

My instant response, “Write about your wedding.”

After her indignant look faded, a slight smile began to appear as her mental conjuring of her wedding day began to take shape.

I had, seemingly pressed the correct button.

I sat back down at the screen – void of emotion – the words appeared:

        

He had lost his best friend Jasper and the now gone forever side kick Prelude.

 

There was nothing of importance left in this world to write about.

The next morning, as I combed my hair in preparation for a new day, it came to me.

I would write about the shallowness of some men.

Thank you Lord for giving me back my creative flow.