AncilI called up Adam a couple of times to watch a movie at the theater. As expected, he brought along his girlfriend every time. But it was still fun with the occasional awkward make-out sessions. Sitting right next to them in the theaters, I could hear the sound of their lips rubbing against each other. The sound was disgusting and the thought of Adam’s spit being swallowed by his female counterpart made me want to hurl. Nevertheless, I still sucked up all the air in the room and remained vigilant in watching the movie. The movie was actually pretty good. It was about a 19-year-old man who had witnessed the merciless killing of an entire town within a flood-wrecked country in the year 2962. Throughout the movie, he ventured through the sunken city of Port Of Spain in an attempt to attribute justice to the people who were killed by the gang leader who called himself the Midnight Robber. The movie was marketed as a dark and dismal one but it was actually pretty funny despite all the death and destruction. It was a great movie. We then stuck around for another movie which was about talking chickens attempting to learn the art of flying — since chickens couldn’t fly and whatnot.
My per-usual summer also consisted of many failed attempts to get over my unrelenting writer’s block and coffee addiction. I went to a couple more Don Hummers workshops with Samantha as my last ditch set of attempts to get over my writer’s block. I had gone to two workshops as July came to an end welcoming the August month. There was one more Don Hummers workshop in Washington and I just had to talk to him. I wanted to talk to him at every workshop but there were so many people around him that the task seemed impossible. But, on the last day, I had a plan. During the workshop, I went up to the class and gave him a note which I then told him to read before he left. He agreed. The note read: “I desperately need to talk to you after the workshop. PLEASE!!! It’s urgent.”
After the workshop and after the crowd left, Don Hummers came to me. I just remained in my seat the whole time expecting Don Hummers to actually agree to my plea. He did.
“Walk with me,” Don Hummers said.
I got up and walked with him. After about a minute of walking in silence, I said, “I have a big problem.”
“Does it have anything to do with that girl you were staring at the whole time during the character development workshop?” Don Hummers asked.
“Ummmm-“
“What’s her name again? Kate right?”
“Ummmm..I…But…..” I was stupefied. “How did-“
“You see Mr. Baker, writing does not make you a good writer; reading does. Not only reading books, but also people; their emotions, their drives, their expressions. It’s the HUMAN experience that creates creativity and not necessarily the human EXPERIENCE. There’s a huge misconception that in order to be a good writer you must have the kind of larger-than-life experiences that are portrayed in the stories.” He seemed to be rambling on. “A writer is the sum of their experiences. But the fact is, you don’t need larger-than-life experiences to transcribe someone else’s experiences onto a page. Even if you are writing a memoir of your life, you are still writing someone else’s story because the person you were yesterday is completely different from the person you are today. The key, Mr. Baker, to good writing is experiencing the little things; the little things that are mostly overlooked, bypassed, and untold. The idea is to relish those little experiences. The way a little child’s face lights up on a bright summer Sunday while his mom is pushing him on a swing; up, down, up then down again. The way a construction worker wipes his brows temporarily ridding it of dripping sweat after a long and hard day’s work. The downcast look of a widow as she stares at the rocky gravestone of her husband who died in war. The way a young boy looks at a woman, who he’s in love with, oblivious to everything being taught at a workshop.” He smirked at me and I gave a quick one-breath laugh as my mind slowly absorbed and contemplated everything he was saying. “I noticed it as I was teaching and I knew that she would have become a very important part of your life, Mr. Baker, especially from the way she also looked at you. However, your lack of importance in my life at that time refrained me from caring much. I knew when you gave me that note, she had a part to play in your problem.”
“You’re right. She does,” I said. I also wanted to ask him about getting rid of my writer’s block but it felt like he had answered my question already.
“Experiencing life is an art, Mr. Baker. An art that only a few people ever master. The mastery of experience is the beginning of creativity. Because your imagination has a way of running wild when given a wide-open plain. A wide plain of curiosity that can only be tenured by asking “What if?” What if that little boy on the swing had realized on that bright summer Sunday that he had the inept ability to fly? What if the construction worker wiping his brows was an undercover agent hiding among a group of construction workers during his investigation of the biggest drug dealer in the universe? What if that woman who had lost her husband lost her husband during an intergalactic space war? And what if that young boy looking at the woman during the writers’ workshop was the first couple of chapters of the best love story ever told? If you are ever going to get over your writer’s block, you have to stop stressing over life and just notice the little things.”
“How did you know about my writer’s block? I can’t remember mentioning that to you.”
“We’re writers Mr. Baker. We can read each other’s minds.” He said nothing more and slowly walked away
The night after my little conversation with Don Hummers, I sat at my desk next to my bed with the document containing the 32 pages of my book, Beyond The Cape. I stared at it with my fingers hovering over the keyboard of my Dell Laptop that looked like it went through hell and back. My fingers seemed to have the exact same polarity as the characters on the keyboard because they seemed to be repelled by the keyboard, unable to get any closer than they already were. I just couldn’t write anything. I sighed and leaned back on my chair. Don Hummers had told me about not stressing over life and just noticing. I hadn’t forgotten his advice but there wasn’t anything in my room to notice. There was no little boy swinging, no construction worker wiping his brows, nor any girl in a green turtleneck sitting three rows in front of me. It was just me and my room. However, I still attempted to notice something. I noticed my breathing and how incredibly difficult it was to breathe rhythmically after noticing that I was breathing. I noticed my heartbeat which I couldn’t really notice until I placed my hand over my left chest. I noticed the inability of my eyes to remain open for too long without burning up. I noticed a bitter taste on my tongue that was usually associated with waking up after a long sleep with your mouth closed. I then looked at my half-made bed and at that moment the phone rang downstairs. It kept ringing but I didn’t get up to answer it. I just let it ring till my sleeping mother got up and answered it. But what if I had answered it? What if the ringing telephone jolted me awake? What if that phone call was the phone call that would have changed my life forever? My imagination went wild and all the worlds and adventures that were unfolding in my head made “Beyond The Cape” look insignificant and boring. A hero who lost his powers and has to deal with being a real human? Really? I could have done so much better. CTRL-A-DELETE!! There were about ten stories in my head and even though they were all pretty good there was one that was way more personal than the rest. The polarity in my fingers changed and my fingers were speedily lunging at characters on the keyboard:
Lost Four Letters
My telephone rang, jolting me awake at around 6:30 am on a Summer Tuesday. My eyes were a bit dazzled by the sudden change in light and my tongue stained with a bitter taste that my chronic swallows of spit couldn’t erase. Nevertheless, I got up and sauntered down the steps of my Washington D.C. home to the ringing telephone.
