THE WRITER’S BLOCK

I guess as we all groe older we get the odd doubt...

“That’s it!” croaked the writer to himself, “That’s very much it! A dozen typos in one line, and some of them aren’t even typos but the mistakes made by my withered brain!”

“What do you mean?” asked his alter-ego, “you never used to be so sloppy!

“I blame the keyboard on this new laptop of mine,” the writer grumbled, “I’m used to something better than this! Look where they’ve put the question mark!”

“But you hardly ever use that symbol,” put in his alter-ego, “you don’t put questions in your novels, just answers. At least, you think they’re answers though truth to tell they’re just a hodgepodge of syllables that end up meaning less than nothing!”

“Then I’ll stop writing,” groaned the writer, “and you know as well as I do that the only joy I get out of life is sitting here with my laptop on my knees and creating my magic!”

“So you say, so you say,” murmured his alter-ego, “and when you shiffle off this mortal coil those left to read what you’ve written will decide. Was he an unrecognised genius or just a dabbler after spirits?”

The writer snorted. “I know I’m no genius,” he lied, “but what do you mean by a dabbler after spirits. Eh?”

“Well,” responded his alter-ego, “don’t you know that you’re dying?”

“There’s a question mark there!” interrupted the writer.

“So there is, and so what? As I was saying, in your condition…”

“What do you mean, my condition?”

“Old. Ancient, Craggy. Suffering from some kind of unnamed dementia. You know what you are, you silly writing man!”

“My brain, I’ll have you know, is as keen as it ever was. As astute. As logged in to the world and its myriad ways. There’s nothing demented about me!” shouted the writer.

“Now you know that isn’t true,” sighed his alter-ego, “you sit there tapping away, and when you look to the screen and see what you’ve done you get so depressed because what you’ve actually written is meaningless twaddle!”

“No it is not, then!”

His alter-ego smirked. “then read what you’ve just tyoed and try to make sense of it if you can! I tell you, and the sooner you accept this the sooner you’ll be truly happy, you’ve got a quirky kind of dementia that yu simply won’t accept.”

“Just because you don’t understand me. I’ll bet Shakespeare had critics like you, and he was a genius.”

“But you’re no Shakespeare,” his alter-ego reminded him, “you’re a tenth rate writer who actually believes in himself, more fool you!”

“I’m a lot better than that!”

“Say that you are, then… what are you going to do about your dozen typos in one line, then, and the genuine mistakes because you’ve forgotten how to spell?”

“I’ll give it up. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll just use this laptop to play solitaire and wile my life away like that.”

“You can’t do that!” his alter-ego spluttered, “because if you do, what becomes of me?”

“You’ll still be there, lurking at the edge of my consciousness and generally being nosy and interfering with what I do.”

“Me? Interfere? I wouldn’t do that! Not in a million years I wouldn’t!”

“Then what are you doing now?

“Guiding you. I’m guiding you towards the light and you’ll never doubt yourself again.”

“Then don’t doubt this. I’ll never write another word. That way the typos will disappear into wherever it is that typos go, and I’ll sit here happy as a sandboy, wiling my life away until that dreaded moment comes…”

“What dreaded moment might that be?”

“The dreaded moment when I do a bit of shuffling off of mortal coils and fade into that oblivion that is somewhere out there, waiting for all of us…”

“Now you’re feeling sorry for yourself!”

“You might think so, but I am reminded of one very important thing…”

“You are?

“I am, Mr alter-ego. When I die or shuffle off this mortal coil whatever that might mean, you’ll be coming with me. And if the hereafter is an amorphous black and featureless blob, then you’ll be enjoying it along with me for ever and ever and ever…”

His alter-ego swallowed. “Then start writing a new story,” he urged, “write about me and you and our whimsical little jokes! Tell them how it is!”

“Jokes? I haven’t heard a joke for an age or more!”

“Come on: write it, damn you, Chapter One, A Blade for my Bunion … go on, don’t give up. Don’t die on me!”

© Peter Rogerson 14.09.22