Writer's Block

         My head hurts. A dull throb that never seems to cease. I guess that's what happens when your brain never stops. It seems I've had trouble focusing lately. At least that's what my agent tells me. I'm a writer, thriller and suspense novels mainly, and my agent, Samantha, has been breathing down my neck to get my third novel completed. If she knew I only had one paragraph written, she'd have my head. At least I wouldn't have to worry about these damn headaches anymore. "Really Robert, she says in that bored, condescending tone I've grown to loathe. "You really need to focus and dedicate more of your time to getting this book done. I can't stall forever. I'm really going out on a limb here for you." Right. Maybe if you dedicated as much time to your marriage, as you do screwing the attorney down the street, you wouldn't be such a bitch. Not that I'd tell her that. My mother raised a gentleman.

         I walk into my kitchen with it's marble countertops, and stark white walls that feel like a prison. I'm mixing another whiskey and coke as I hear the screaming start again. I sigh and reach over to shut the door that leads to my newly renovated basement with a little more fervor than necessary. I swear to God some days I don't know why I bother. I should really just pack up and move to some miserable little cabin in the woods where no one can find me. So far away even Samantha's bullshit can't follow. I'm guessing you are probably wondering about the screaming. I'll tell you, though you probably wouldn't understand. You might think me crazy, but when you have to listen to nagging day in and day out about turning in a decent story that won't tank as soon as it hits the bookshelves, well, you might change your mind.

         I'll just come out with it. I have a woman in my basement. I'd fervently hoped when I put her there, I'd be able to tell you she wasn't just ANY woman. That she was the muse I'd been searching for, and I'd finally get this book done. I was wrong, however. Again. For the 5th time. Such is life. I know what you're thinking, "What the hell is going on here, what is this crazy asshole doing?!" Well I may be an asshole, but I'm not crazy. I promise. The idea this would work, that I would get such a spellbinding plot from a woman that I'd sell 10 million books and never have to write again, THAT was crazy. But I digress.

         I decided a few months ago after long nights drinking myself into a stupor with my laptop open in front of me, that I had to take a different approach this time. I had a basic story line in my head. Twisted serial killer, taking woman after woman, untraceable by the very police force he worked for. My character needed to stand out from the crowd. Different from all the other crime drama drivel that lay stagnant in your local book store. I needed to get inside his head. See things from his point of view. That's when I decided to start my search for a muse that could inspire me. That woman who could help me answer the readers questions on what one would feel after being taken, locked in a room for months , away from reality. She could help me understand how my killer would react to the screams. The begging and pleading for one's life turning into death threats towards my captor when that dark anger started to replace the terrified anguish from before. I spent a few days scouring cafes and bars in the city before finding my first. I took her quietly as she left a dive bar on 12th street a little before midnight. It's almost laughable how naive some people can be. She was beautiful, with amber colored eyes, and blonde hair that caught the even the faintest light and seemed to sparkle. She was talking to some asshole in a sports coat about Hemingway, and I knew I had to have her.

         It didn't last. Every day I walked down those stairs and made a real honest to God effort to instill some calm. I'm not a monster. I had the basement fitted with a nice queen sized bed, a bookshelf, even a small bathroom. I really tried to get into her head. My plan was to spent some time each day with her, ask questions on how she was feeling, her deepest fears on what would happen to her. Did she want to hurt me? What would be the worse thing I could do to her in our time together? What did she think was going on inside MY head. I really thought it would give me the insight I needed to finish my novel. To really piece together my story for my readers. She spent the first few days screaming, crying, ransacking the room for an escape. I understood, but it really aggravated me. That bookshelf took a really long time to put together. Fucking Ikea. The next couple she spent in a combination of blank stares and silence, and trying to kill me. I got nothing out of the experience, and now I have to spend another 50 bucks on a bookshelf. My head hurt again. As I sat in my kitchen brooding over what a failure I was, I realized I had no plan on what to do with the woman after. Obviously I couldn't let her go. I couldn't finish my book in prison, and Samantha would never let me hear the end of it. In the end I strangled her with the stupid tie my agent got me for Christmas last year and dumped her bruised body in the abandoned quarry outside of town. My antagonist would not have to deal with this much grief. I really needed to get my shit together.

         The next three went pretty much the same way. I really don't understand women. Your nice to them, give them a comfortable place to stay, and they still try to break your heart. Or stop it in my case, as almost all of them tried to kill me during questioning. I know what you want me to say. That I had a horrible childhood, my parents fought and abused me, and I tortured kittens as a teenager. In actuality, I had a normal, loving childhood with two doting parents who loved each other very deeply. I grew up a well adjusted teenager, and went to college for a degree in Literature. Like I said, I'm not crazy, I just really need to get my agent off my back so I can make enough money to get out of this place. That brings us to now I think. I take a sip of my drink and I hear Samantha scream again from downstairs. I really thought it would be different this time. She understood the premise of my novel and I thought for sure she would answer the questions I had. Her job is on the line if I don't get this book finished, it was really in her best interests to help me. Instead she has spent the last 2 days screaming at me and cursing my existence, which in all fairness, is a lot like she normally did before I had her stuck down there. I have spent the last day simultaneously figuring out a way to get Samantha off my ass for good, and looking for my next muse. I haven't found her yet, but I will.