Another Wannabe Writer

elcome to my new office space. I suppose it’s the way of authors, or in my case a wannabe author, to imagine ourselves in all sorts of exotic locales and interesting circumstances. I tend to focus on the details of what those far-away - in another time - places have to offer before they become as common and ordinary to me as they are to the people that live and work and play there every day. So I’ve grown a bit nostalgic for some familiar items but with a glance backward to when they seemed modern and fresh. Banker’s lamps and desk blotters make me believe I’m the possessor of vast industrial fortunes. Airmail, brandy, and a good cigar allow me to exercise my vices as a man of the world. Ah, the phone, again . . . probably my publisher looking for that final draft.

efore I flop into that old arch-back chair I think I’ll glance outside and let the weather set my mood. I love hands-on living but there is one benefit of the digital world; I can immediately pacify my whim for what vista will greet me looking out of the virtual window over my desk. Perhaps I’m in New England in the Fall? There’s the love of my life in a baggy sweatshirt and her hair tossed with the wind just like the leaves she’s raking. I love the way the light plays off that auburn silk glinting with streaks of honey. She’s so beautiful among the burgundy and amber backdrop of autumn.

hat is that muffled sound? Seagulls and the tumbling waves are calling me to leave this musty paper and step through the cabana doorway into the warm sand of the beach. Cocoa butter and salt are caressing my nose. The squeals of children barely carry over the static of the surf. My toes idly search the gaps between the dry rotted planks of the floor beneath my feet. I’ve got to focus and get to work. I have writing to do.

here is no time to gaze out on these desert dunes. They should seem lonely and lifeless but they’re hiding something mysterious beneath those layers of sediment streaked rust and blood in the encrusted rocky ledges. Tenacious clumps of grass defy the odds of survival. The frail blades reach for the endless sky but grow faint and bow down to the arid earth This old rocking chair has worn ruts into the porch after all of the hours I’ve spent after the sun and the heat go down in the evenings.

uts. I’m certainly in one now. Come on, Lance, sit down in that chair and start writing. This stuff doesn’t write itself. I suppose that’s the magic, isn’t it? Someone has to write the short stories, novels, plays and scripts so why not me! I really want to be a writer instead of [anything else] and, I also write. I have always wanted to indifferently stroll into the bank with a royalty check from my publisher and have the cashier be excited to realize, “You’re Lance Schneider?!” Before any of that can happen I actually need to write something. Too bad. Maybe I’m afraid the dream is better than reality just as my stories are better than my life? There is only one way to know for certain.

t’s time to take off this jacket and these cuff links; roll up these sleeves and loosen this tie. That’s better. Huh. She left her stockings strewn over the end of the sofa, right where I finally persuaded her to let me peel them off. What was her name . . ?