Exercise Five
Dr. Flowers is a somewhat disagreeable man with a permanently anguished expression, but he wasn’t always that way. Once he was an aspiring novelist; words sang in his heart and he happily put them on the page. He also had a lovely young wife who read his work and told him it was brilliant. Her love and support gave him courage, and he submitted his work to a prestigious press. It happened to land on the desk of an editor who’d been continually passed over for promotion and was extremely bitter about it.
The manuscript had immense promise; even the editor recognized that. The author simply needed to spend a year or two perfecting his craft. Ten years ago, the editor might have taken on the author, nurtured him so that he could grow into the kind of novelist people would remember for a long time.
But the days of guiding a young novelist were over for the editor. He was nearing the end of his career. Publishing had changed so much since he started, and he’d lost much of his idealism. The manuscript on his desk stunk of hope and youth, and all of the things the editor had lost.
So, instead of writing a kind yet supportive rejection note to the greenhorn author, the editor typed out a scathing letter several pages long, exposing every single flaw and not mentioning a single one of the manuscript’s many strengths.
In the meantime, the young Flowers had gotten into the habit of impatiently waiting for the mail and running out to the street as soon as it came. It was such a letdown when the mailbox contained only bills and ad circulars.
He also had long pillow talks with his young wife, and they’d spin tales about how their lives would change when he got published. But the longer he waited for a response, the more superstitious he became, and he told his wife not to talk about it anymore because it might jinx him. She assured him nothing could jinx him because he was brilliant. The next Fitzgerald or Hemingway.
Finally a letter from the press arrived. His heart practically flew out of his chest when he saw the return address. The envelope was thick. He knew rejection letters were usually one-page long or sometimes no more than a slip of paper. Was it possible the letter contained a contract for the novel?
He couldn’t bear to read it. He asked his wife to open it for him, which she did, her hands trembling all the while, but her face beamed. She felt sure it was going to contain good news. But then she began to read, and her expression got more and more serious as she went along.
“What is it? Tell me.” He could barely stand it.
She tucked the letter back into the envelope. “There are other publishers. This one isn’t for you.”
“Let me see it.”
“Please, honey, I don’t think you should read this.”
But the young Flowers had a stubborn streak, so he insisted. As he read, it felt as if the bottom had fallen out of his stomach. His wife tried to comfort him, but he shirked away from her.
Over the next few days he read the letter dozens of times. He read it so many times he could quote from it verbatim. The editor’s poisonous voice was the only one he heard in his head, and it drowned out the voice of his young wife who kept telling him he was talented and that he should try another press and not let this single rejection get to him. He also could no longer write; every time he sat down at the typewriter, he imagined the editor standing over his shoulder in judgment.
In time the corners of his mouth froze into a permanent frown, and he started to view the whole world through the critical eyes of the editor. Suddenly he saw his young wife not as nurturing and loving, but as simple and Pollyannaish. He was often short with her and discounted almost everything she said. Eventually he became cruel and unfeeling toward her, which caused her to pack her bags and leave. He was left alone with his defeated spirit and judgmental eye.
Dr. Flowers finished reading Laurie’s work. He rearranged a few items on his desktop and didn’t say anything for a long time, as was his custom. Finally he said, “‘Words singing in his heart?’ ‘Stunk of hope?’ Could you be more mundane? People beaming? Beaming’s a word that should be struck from the dictionary. ‘Happily on the page?’ What do Strunk and White say about adverbs?”
“There’s only one adverb, and I thought that one was—”
He held up a hand. “That’s not the worst of it. Can’t you see it’s all so predictable? Couldn’t you have come up with something more original?”
“I’m sorry. It was the first idea that came to mind and—”
“Never, ever follow your first thought.” His voice sounded hoarse, and he lowered it to a loud whisper. “Write until you surprise yourself.”
“Do you want me to do it over?”
“No.” He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair as if preparing for a nap. “Just continue writing on your novel and bring me more pages tomorrow.”
The next morning Laurie knocked on Dr. Flowers’ office door, and when she got no response, she jiggled the handle, thinking he might be napping, but the door was locked. She visited the English suite office and spoke to a receptionist who told her that Dr. Flowers was feeling extremely ill yesterday afternoon and was taken to the hospital by ambulance.
Distressed, she immediately drove to the hospital to check on him, stopping by the gift store first, but all the offerings seemed far too cheery for a man like Dr. Flowers: a plush teddy bear hugging a vase of carnations, Mylar balloons decorated with bees that say, “Bee well.”
She was tempted to ask the clerk, “Don’t you have anything for people with a gloomy outlook?” In the end, she selected a fruit basket, but removed the oversized ladybug-patterned bow after she left the store.
When she arrived in Dr. Flowers’ room, he was sleeping. There were no flowers or family members. She sat by his bedside for a few minutes, debating whether she should stay. Her purse fell from her lap and cosmetics rained on the tile floor, making a terrific clatter.
Dr. Flowers’ eyes flew open; he looked startled, as if he wasn’t sure where he was.
Laurie was on her hands and knees, retrieving a silver lipstick tube of Pinky Nude that had rolled under the bed.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I was—”
“What are you doing here?” His voice sounded parched and weak.
“I was worried silly about you.”
He closed his eyes again. “There’s no need for concern. I had a bout with severe heartburn. They kept me overnight for observation, but I’ll be going home soon.”
A broad-chested male orderly came in and told Dr. Flowers he could start getting dressed because his doctor has given him the okay to be discharged. The orderly glanced at Laurie and gave her an appreciative look. “Is this pretty lady your daughter? Will she be taking you home?”
Dr. Flowers said, “No. She’s not my daughter, and I’ll catch a cab home, thank you very much.”
“A cab?” Laurie said. “I won’t hear of it. I’ll drive you.”
He refused, and they argued back and forth until he finally relented. The orderly told her to go ahead and get the car and meet them underneath the portico in front of the building.
On the way home, Dr. Flowers was uncharacteristically quiet, and instead of wearing his usual crabby expression, he simply looked like he’d been beaten with a broom handle. When they arrived at his house, a small condo near the university, she insisted on seeing him in.
The air inside smelled stale, like the house has been closed up for a while. The walls of his front room were painted a forest green and looked almost black in the dim light. Dusty damask drapes covered every window, and dark wood bookshelves lined an entire wall. Nearly every surface was awash with newspapers, magazines and books, some yellowed with age.
Laurie got Dr. Flowers settled on an easy chair.
“Are you sure I can’t do something for you? Make you a cup of chicken noodle soup or maybe some red Jell-O
with those little marshmallows? That always perks me up.”
“I’m fine.”
She shrugged her purse over her shoulder but continued to linger, reluctant to leave him alone. His eyes were closed, and he seemed as if he might be drifting off to a nap. She was about to ask if she could fetch him a blanket when he said, “You got most of it right.”
“What’s that?”
“The writing exercise. Most of it was chillingly accurate, believe it or not. The bitter editor, although I received more than one rejection. Also the young wife. You didn’t mention children. We had a son. My wife left me when he was still a toddler.”
Slowly Laurie lowered herself into a chair, listening intently.
“She remarried, the boy took his name and five years later, she was killed in a freak accident. The boy came to live with me. I didn’t do well with him. I was too married to my work. We barely speak.”
“I’m sorry…I honestly never imagined…”
“I asked you to write it, didn’t I?”
That was the most confessional thing he’d ever said to her. She squeezed his hand. The texture of his skin felt dry and papery, as if he was dehydrated. “I’m sure that’s not all true. You’re just being hard on yourself.”
“Sadly, I’m not. Anyway, last night I started writing something about you. I didn’t finish it. The heartburn got in the way. Why don’t you take a look?”
He leaned down and withdrew a piece of paper from a battered leather satchel. He handed it to her.
She smiled, flattered. “I can’t imagine what you might have come up with.”
Her clothes, so colorful I long for an eyeshade. Her voice is a brook, happy, gurgling; her smile as bright as the sun. Her hands move like two hummingbirds; so fast you can barely see.
She’s a walking inspiration poster. Hang in there! Don’t worry, be happy! When life gives you lemons, squeeze it into your sweet tea.
And yet, amongst all the light, the party balloons, the sparklers, rare flashes of something slightly darker...What is she hiding?
Laurie looked up from the paper, startled.
“I have no idea what you’re getting at…I mean, well. I did recently lose my husband but—”
“How long ago?” His voice was incredulous.
“It’s been over a year. But if I’d told you, you’d want me to probably write about it and frankly I’d rather not. For months afterward I was so depressed. If I write about it I might stir things up again.”
Dr. Flowers met her eyes. Usually his gaze was meant to be intimidating, but today it held only softness.
“No light without dark.”
“Excuse me?”
“No joy without pain.” His voice sounded weak initially but got stronger with every syllable. “Don’t deny your demons. Come to terms with them, and they’ll make you a more compassionate writer. The reader reads your work and wonders why you’re hiding from him. More importantly he wonders what you’re hiding from yourself.”
“I don’t feel as if I’m hiding a thing,” she said.
“So you say, but I think you need to dig deeper. Why don’t you try writing about the day of his death?”
“I can’t. And not because it was too painful, it’s because I was so doped up on sedatives, I can barely remember it.”
“Or maybe there’s something you’d rather not remember.”
Dr. Flowers closed his eyes again as if their conversation had spent him. The room was silent.
Laurie got up from her chair. The condo was so cluttered she was starting to feel boxed in. “Well, I should go and let you get some rest.” She paused by the door, gathering her thoughts. “I hope you feel better soon. And thanks for all you’ve done for me. I’m a much better writer because of you.”
He opened his eyes. The whites were mapped with blood vessels. “Is it my imagination or are you saying goodbye to me?”
“I think I’m done for the time being. Yes.”
“According to our schedule you have two more days left.”
“I’ll skip them. I honestly think I’ve gone as far as I can.”
A resigned expression crossed his face. “As you wish.”
Laurie exited the living room and opened up the front door, relieved to depart from his company and to be out in the sunshine once again.
Twenty-Four
Twelve hours a day every day Laurie worked on her novel. Her output thus far was impressive, but she had no idea about the quality of her work, and whether or not her sessions with Dr. Flowers had helped. Finishing the book was what mattered most now. After she was done writing her pages, Ramona proofed them for her.
Two weeks later, Laurie was at the seventy-thousand-word mark, which meant it was time to wrap up plot points and slide into a climax. She started the day typing and the words flew, but around eleven a.m. they stopped abruptly. She made a few false starts but nothing happened. It was as if her muse has knocked off for the day and was now stretched out on a La-Z-Boy eating Cheese Nips and binge-watching Netflix.
Ramona approached her desk. She’d drawn a single black tear coming out of her right eye. “Where are the pages?”
“I don’t have any.”
“What do you mean you don’t have any? I’ve been waiting for them.”
The cursor blinked on a screen that seemed excessively blank and white. “I’m feeling off today.”
Ramona’s eyes were unblinking. “I need those pages.”
“Can’t you find something else to keep you busy?”
She vigorously shook her head. Her hair was stiff with black dye and barely moved. “You don’t understand. I want to know what happens.”
“But…you don’t like real-life romance. You like heroes with scales or fur.” Laurie glanced at her assistant’s t-shirt. It said, “Some Day My Succubus Will Come.”
“I like this romance.”
“You think it’s good?”
“Remember? When we started this arrangement, you asked me to only correct mistakes, not to comment on your work.”
“Only if you don’t like it. Are you saying you’re enjoying the book?”
“It doesn’t make me want to shove lit matches under my nails…”
“You sweet-talker, you.”
“I’ll leave you now so you can write.” She looked over her shoulder. “Type fast.”
Ramona’s backhanded compliment encouraged Laurie, but it didn’t help with the block. She kept rereading and rereading the last few paragraphs she’d written, hoping they’d juice the ones to come, but nothing happened. She’d start a sentence, and it went nowhere.
Maybe some light household chores would unclog her brain. She folded laundry warm from the dryer and ran a vacuum over the carpet even though it didn’t need it. Still feeling blocked, she baked a batch of Tollhouse cookies and devoured six of them, getting a sugar rush. Jittery with energy, she returned to her desk, but when she sat down to write…
Nothing.
The next morning the clock radio blared a commercial for a monster truck rally, and Laurie muffled it with her pillow. She didn’t want to get out of bed because she knew nothing had changed. She could still sense the block in her mind. Overnight it seemed to have solidified into a permanent structure, like an iceberg or a kidney stone. A few minutes later there was a knock at the front door. It was Ramona.
“Did you oversleep?”
No doubt Ramona was noting the baby doll gown, the wild hair, the crusty eyes.
“No.”
“I’ll go in the office and wait for you to get ready.”
“I’m not working today.” Laurie swallowed, hoping to chase away the sour taste in her mouth.
Ramona frowned. “But there’s only a week until your deadline. You can’t afford to miss
a day.”
“I know that. And I’m not being lazy. I just can’t get past the block. It’s like trying to muscle through a bricked-up door with ten snarling German Shepherds guarding it.”
“You’re giving up?”
“I don’t know what else to do.” Tears pricked her eyes. Things had been easy until now. She was so close, only fifteen or twenty thousand words more. If she wasn’t blocked she could easily write that many words in a week.
“Sit at your desk,” Ramona said. “Something will happen. I’ll keep the Red Bull coming.”
“You don’t get it. This is a serious block. The story’s completely stalled. I’m just going to send off what I have to my editor. Let the cowriter figure out the rest.”
“But if the cowriter writes it, it won’t be your story anymore.”
Laurie ran her hands through hair tangled by a restless night. “I’m too emotionally exhausted to argue with you about this. Here’s what I need you to do: Proofread and then send it off to my editor.”
Ramona left, grumbling. As soon as she’d gone, Laurie climbed back into bed and pulled the covers over her head. Fatigue settled over her, heavy as her goose-down duvet. Maybe she’d spend the rest of the day there. With no book to write, there didn’t seem like much point in getting up.
Aaron was finishing up the dregs of his morning coffee when someone banged on his front door. Ramona, Laurie’s assistant, was outside. She was huffing and puffing like she was out of breath. What could she possibly want?
“May I help you?”
Ramona peered over Aaron’s shoulder, as if looking for someone. “Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
Emma left for the bookstore several minutes ago.
“Good. I need to talk to you.”
“What does this concern?”
Her expression was stony. She kept looking over her shoulder as if she was being watched. “A matter of grave importance.”
Love Literary Style Page 21