Cheaper Than Therapy

By Wayne Scheer

"It's different this time," Will told his wife while sitting in front of his computer, the screen as bare as an oak in winter. "I have nothing. Nada. Not a single idea for a story. Not even a character, a beginning sentence. Nothing."

Bonnie massaged his neck, digging her thumbs into the flesh under his shirt collar. "I've heard this before," she said. "When was it, about two months ago? You said you were going to quit writing because it was too much like work. You had nothing more to say, you told me." She smiled, managing to avoid any hint of condescension. "I left the house and when I came back you were typing so furiously you didn't even hear me walk in. After dinner you wrote until three in the morning."

"Yeah, but what do I have to show for it? Another story that needs revision."

"So, you'll revise." She stopped her massage and kissed Will's cheek.

Will turned and met her lips with his. "Thanks for being here. And for believing in..."

"Oh, stop the crap before you nominate me for sainthood. You know I'm just sticking around for the royalty checks."

"Royalty checks? I thought you wanted the T-shirt rights and the Will Squires action figures?"

Bonnie pushed away her husband, putting her hands on her hips. "I want those, too, Buster. And the bobble heads. I want it all."

"Hey," Will suddenly remembered. "Did I tell you? An e-zine — The Morose Pumpkin, I think — just bought one of my stories for ten bucks."

"See," Bonnie smiled. "These thirty-five years with you are paying off already."

With that, Bonnie kissed her husband, telling him she'd be back dinnertime. "That should give you plenty of time to stop feeling sorry for yourself and do some writing."

"I love you," Will shouted as Bonnie closed the front door.

Will sighed deeply, staring at his computer screen. "It's just you and me, kid," he said in his best Bogart impression.

But after cracking the knuckles on all ten fingers and stretching his arms so his elbow joints popped, Will still had nothing. And the frustration mounted.

Why do I do this to myself? He thought. After thirty years of teaching, you'd think I'd want to relax, garden, play tennis, take afternoon naps. Why do I sit here in silence, forcing words onto a computer screen?

If I had something to say, it would be another matter. But I have no interest in offering advice or creating elaborate political or social theories. Besides, I don't trust people who think they have the answers. I have nothing to offer but my own confusion, and I think that line comes from an old Jack Kerouac novel, and he probably stole it from Celine.

Will leafed through his journal, looking for a story idea. He read his notes about a teacher, so desperate to attract the attention of her students, she rips off her clothes in front of the class. It isn't until the bell rings that anyone notices.

Is writing simply a form of exhibitionism for introverts? Will wasn't sure if his observation was insight or nonsense or a little of both.

Enough. He decided he needed to write something.

He typed a few words and deleted them, typed some more, read what he composed, highlighted it all and pressed the delete button. This process continued for much of an hour. Finally, he stretched his fingers and typed: "Help me. I'm trapped inside my head, and I can't get out." He looked at what he had typed, released a sigh of frustration, and pressed the delete key once again. Watching the letters vanish, he imagined a reverse process spraying the unwanted words onto the computer screen of some poor soul in Australia.

"What in the bloody blazes does, Help me. I'm trapped inside my head and I can't get out mean," wonders Cyrus Alpern, staring at his computer screen in his home in Sydney.

"Yes!" Will shouted aloud, breaking the monastic silence. What a great opening sentence. He began typing furiously

"Oh," Will looked up at Bonnie. "I didn't know you were home."

"I've been home for a while now. You were so lost in thought I didn't want to disturb you." Bonnie smiled at her husband. "You obviously found an idea for a story. You want to talk about it?"

"I need to write, but it's a fantasy about a man whose inner thoughts are somehow communicated via computer to a person on the other side of the world."

Bonnie shook her head. "It's just amazing how you come up with these ideas."

Will smiled. It's good having a wife who is impressed so easily, he thought.