Impatience
Derek Muk
Derek Muk returns to FM for the first time since the October 5,
1987 issue.
Paul Winslow kept staring at the white sheet of paper before him
on the desk. He just sat there, rubbing the sheet against the
dark oak surface, making a smooth sound across it. He didn't realize
it, but he had been at this for quite some time, thinking. Wondering.
But it wouldn't do any good.
He practically sat the whole afternoon, in the living room, then
in the attic and now in the dining room. Thinking about what to
write next. There were so many ideas out there, but none of them
flourished in his mind at the moment. He remembered the last story
he had written. It was about a boy who befriended a monster in
a cave by the sea. It was a stupid story. But he wrote it anyway.
His mother wanted to look over it, but he refused to show her.
He didn't show it to anyone. It was just in one of his folders
in his desk drawer.
But Paul was hoping to write a better story. A story that would
electrocute even his English teacher. So he would try.
* * * * *
He went back to his small shoebox room, a place that contained
a bed, a desk, TV, and a basket. He sat behind his typewriter.
Then he closed his eyes tight, teeth grit, fists clenched in frustration.
After a minute he opened his eyes again, and caught his breath.
It didn't work. The ideas weren't there. Then he got up and looked
out the window. There were patches of white clouds out there,
outlined with streaks of blue. The apple tree outside was dead,
the grass rooting up from the ground to the window, and the white
fence was gradually deteriorating. There was no inspiration out
there in the yard.
He went to his closet, got his jacket, and left.
* * * * *
He walked through the park, wondering where he was going. A young
thin fellow in high school, walking aimlessly.
He didn't care, though. He knew if he kept walking, he would get
some inspiration for a story. There had to be something out there.
He looked at the lake. It wasn't blue today. The birds weren't
there, sipping the water. The children weren't there, throwing
crumbs to the pigeons. The old men weren't there, sitting on the
old green benches. He walked the distance out of the park, to
the book store.
* * * * *
For Paul, Lilly's Book Factory was a great place to spend Sunday
afternoons. He would come here, select a book of his choice, and
read for hours, without ever buying a book. The owner, Lilly Reynolds,
didn't mind. She was an obese woman, with fat round cheeks that
sat behind the counter everyday reading the newspaper.
When Paul entered the store, she wasn't reading the newspaper
this time. She was reading "Cosmopolitan" this time. And she looked
different. Her hair was tied up neatly with a brett, and her smile
seemed wider.
"Hello" said Paul coming in.
"Hi." She replied. They never exchanged names.
He went to the magazine stand, found nothing interesting, and
went on to the paperbacks.
Nothing good. He read some of the stuff already. Then he thought
about all these books. The people who wrote them. What minds thye
had. It probably took a lot out of them to do all this. A lot
of the copies sold a lot too. He wasn't interested. He went back
to the magazine stand.
He picked up an issue of Writer's World. He used to collect every
issue. But then they got boring. He flipped through the first
few pages. There were interviews with all sorts of writers. They
had a lot of their work already on the shelves. They're certainly
happy. There was an interview with a well-known science fiction
writer. The lady was talking about her latest novel, based on
a dream she had. Then there was another interview with a local
writer who hit it big with a lot of support from the community.
Now he sat on top of the world with loaves of green bread everywhere.
Now he was bragging about how he got the idea for his new book.
"Well, I sat under an apple tree one day, and one of the apples
hit my head, and suddenly there was an idea..........." said the
writer. Paul didn't like it. It suddenly didn't make any sense.
All this publicity, photographs, and emphasis on the power of
the written word. He put the magazine back and left.
* * * * *
That evening Paul wanted to show his mother one of his stories.
It wasn't the one about the monster, but one about gnomes living
in a forest.
His mother, with sparkling brown eyes and curly brown hair sat
in the living room watching TV. Paul went up to her and said,
"Mom, you want to read one of my stories?"
She said, "Hush dear, the weatherman is talking about tomorrow's
forecast...."
Paul looked at the television. He felt like getting his best baseball
bat and giving the screen a good whack. But he held his composure.
He didn't care about tomorrow's weather. For all he cared, there
could be a tornado tomorrow. He looked at his mother again.
"Mom –"
"Not now Paul, the newsman is going to have an interview with
the mayor soon. I don't want to miss it."
"Mom, c'mon, you'll love it –"
"I'm sorry Paul, I'm really busy tonight. I have some papers to
do, and a really good book to read. I've been waiting months for
it. It's Lyndon Kirk's new fantasy novel. Book cost me $16.95!"
She chuckled slightly as she said it. Paul wasn't impressed with
anything she said. It was stupid.
"Mom, it's really short, only about two pages –"
"No, really I can't. Paul, tomorrow, I promise. Please." She looked
at him seriously this time and turned her gaze back to the screen.
He went back to his room and slammed the door shut. He was wasting
his time writing nonsense. Neither his teacher, his mother, nor
he approved of his first story. So it didn't make a difference
after all. Writing wasn't that important. There were other things
in the world that he could turn to.
He got out the batch of stories he had written in the last year
and looked at it. At one point he entered a writing contest with
one of the stories. It didn't work out. Writing was harder than
he expected.
He went over to the garbage can and tossed it in. Then he unplugged
his typewriter and put it back in a cardboard box.
Copyright 1988 by Derek Muk. Unauthorized duplication,
posting, or publication is strictly prohibited.
|