“You’re twenty-nine years old, Michael. What the hell is so interesting about your life?”
“Not mine. It’s for a friend.”
“You ghostwriting now? I thought we talked about this. That’s not going to build your readership. It’s all of the grunt work with none of the recognition.”
“It’s not a paying gig. I’m in a drought, and I need something to inspire me. My friend has an interesting story. I’m willing to see where it goes.”
“Listen, Michael, I know we’ve had some differences of opinion lately, but I hope this isn’t some kind of delayed teenage rebellion you’ve got going on here. I’m only trying to help you make a career out of your talent. It’s cutthroat out there with the rise of ‘Zon and the indies. You’re lucky we got you the advances that we did—”
“I know, Dad, and I appreciate it.”
“—and the longer you wait to publish your next novel, the more your readers will forget you ever existed. It’s all about timing, Michael. You have to strike while the iron is hot.”
“I get it, Dad. Tell it to my muse.”
Another noise of dissatisfaction. “There’s always a spot for you in the agency if you want to put writing aside for a while. Might be a steadier income until you sort out your next project.”
Going to an office every day where my father was also my boss? Our relationship wouldn’t survive it.
“Thanks for the offer. I’ll think about it. For now, can I just use the cabin?”
“Yeah. You know where the key’s at. Make sure it’s stocked when you leave.”
“Will do. Thanks, Dad.”
“If you want to come into the office and bounce some ideas of Bitzy and me, we’d be happy to steer you in the right direction. Hell, you could even try your mother.”
It must be bad if my father was referring me to my mother for help.
“All right. Maybe I will.”
“And remember, you’ve got to put in the time. Bestsellers don’t write themselves.”
“Gotcha. Thanks for the pep talk. Catch you later, Dad.”
I ended the call, feeling more debilitated than inspired, then sat down in front of my computer and stared at the blank screen until the bees in my skull became an incessant drone.
I needed another drink.
6
the muse
Writer’s block is similar to what I’d imagine a blockage feels to the intestines—a clogging of the creative flow. A vile, bilious stoppage. And the longer it persists, the more toxic the system becomes.
I was irritable. Obsessively cleaning my apartment didn’t help, neither did meeting friends for drinks. My pithy posts on social media only made me feel like more of a fraud. I couldn’t research because I had no idea what my next plot would entail, so I ended up following absurd, online rabbit trails only to surface, hours later, and wonder where the time had gone. Also, a lot of napping.
I was floundering.
I started readingThe Old Man and the Sea, the book Arden had given me. About twenty-five pages in, I reached a truly moving passage and had to call him.
“He no longer dreamed of storms, nor of women, nor of great occurrences, nor of great fish, nor fights, nor contests of strength, nor of his wife. He only dreamed of places now and of the lions on the beach. They played like young cats in the dusk and he loved them as he loved the boy.”
“My father loved that part,” Arden said when I’d finished reciting it.
“He read it?”
“I read it to him, several times. It was his favorite. That andMoby Dick, which was a real bitch for me to get through, if I’m honest.”
