Lemons
Posted: Tue May 16, 2006 1:59 am
The single longest piece of writing I've done in months. It began as a stupid thing, writing about writers block (something you're never supposed to do), then turned into something more fictional. Oh, and if anyone can think of a word to fill the blank, please do tell. I'm getting desperate.
The writer sat at his desk, chin resting in the palm of one hand, staring at the screen of his laptop computer. His mind couldn't seem to break through the fog that had shrouded it for the past half hour, the fog that wouldn't let him write. He had paused for a moment only - a single word that needed a moments extra thought - and found he could not resume. The word was missing. That had been his first mistake - thinking of the word as missing, as something that must be found before he could continue. So he sat looking at the words on the screen, trying to find the word he had lost. "She tasted of lemons, and -"
He couldn't get started. He had gone back, edited earlier passages, opened up other windows and tried writing about other things, but it all came back to the missing word. If he just found it, he would be able to write again. Until he did, he would be distracted by the thought of it - Why is it gone? Where did it go? - He felt abandoned. He had struggled for months with his writing, fighting the words onto the page, bullying them into orders, meanings, stories. But however hard he struggled, the words resisted. He would write a single page in a day, forcing the words one by one, and when he read the result at the end, he would destroy it. The words were fighting too hard. What he wrote would be nonsense, or riddled with cliche, or just terrible. It had taken months until the words stopped fighting. Suddenly he found he could write again, thousands of words in a day, stories he could leave intact whenit was over, and he stopped, satisfied. And then he paused to find a single word, and found it was missing.
"She tasted of lemons, and -"
He couldn't see where he was going. He couldn't find the words to follow that glaring blank space on the page. The lost word had become everything. He spent hours obsessing over it; he would leave his desk and storm away, take a break, go for a walk, only to come stalking back and stare at the screen, unable to get the missing word out of his head. He stopped sleeping. He pored through dictionaries and thesauri. He tried to read, but could not keep the word out of his mind long enough to finish a single page. His girlfriend would drag him away from the desk, make him sit down in the living room. It'll be alright, she would tell him. You just need to relax. He would sit for maybe half an hour, responding halfheartedly to her conversation, until she despaired and sent him back to the study. You worry too much.
After a month of this she gave up on him. He kissed her goodbye in the doorway, distractedly waved as the cab pulled away. He went straight back to his study, to the screen and the cursor, the word that he had lost. If he could only find the word again, he would think. If only I could find the word, everything will be alright. He had stopped trying to write at all. He would just sit at his desk, going through it in his mind again and again - "She tasted of lemons, and -" Lemons. She tasted of lemons and... The story no longer mattered. All that mattered was that line. That word. If he found the word, everything would go back to the way it was.
He didn't notice that he had lost weight. His eyes now held a haunted appearance that disturbed everyone who saw them. The few times friends visited - usually on his girlfriend's urging - they were unusually taciturn, and all of them found a reason to leave soon after arriving. His neighbours became used to seeing the light in his study shining all night, and his form seated at the desk, staring straight into the screen. After a time, people no longer tried to visit him. His girlfriend stopped trying to call him; he had stopped answering the phone long before that. Noone saw or heard anything of him, except when they saw him in the window at night.
Eventually, one of the neighbours became concerned, and called the police. The writer did not answer the door when they came, so one of the PCs kicked it open, and they all entered. They found the house silent - the rooms appeared as though undisturbed for weeks. At length they came to the third floor, and the door of the study. Inside, the writer sat at his desk, leaning over the laptop computer, head propped on the palm of one hand. When one of the constables touched his shoulder, he fell to the floor. On the screen a document was open, and a blinking cursor hovered beside the only word that had been written there: Lemons.
The writer sat at his desk, chin resting in the palm of one hand, staring at the screen of his laptop computer. His mind couldn't seem to break through the fog that had shrouded it for the past half hour, the fog that wouldn't let him write. He had paused for a moment only - a single word that needed a moments extra thought - and found he could not resume. The word was missing. That had been his first mistake - thinking of the word as missing, as something that must be found before he could continue. So he sat looking at the words on the screen, trying to find the word he had lost. "She tasted of lemons, and -"
He couldn't get started. He had gone back, edited earlier passages, opened up other windows and tried writing about other things, but it all came back to the missing word. If he just found it, he would be able to write again. Until he did, he would be distracted by the thought of it - Why is it gone? Where did it go? - He felt abandoned. He had struggled for months with his writing, fighting the words onto the page, bullying them into orders, meanings, stories. But however hard he struggled, the words resisted. He would write a single page in a day, forcing the words one by one, and when he read the result at the end, he would destroy it. The words were fighting too hard. What he wrote would be nonsense, or riddled with cliche, or just terrible. It had taken months until the words stopped fighting. Suddenly he found he could write again, thousands of words in a day, stories he could leave intact whenit was over, and he stopped, satisfied. And then he paused to find a single word, and found it was missing.
"She tasted of lemons, and -"
He couldn't see where he was going. He couldn't find the words to follow that glaring blank space on the page. The lost word had become everything. He spent hours obsessing over it; he would leave his desk and storm away, take a break, go for a walk, only to come stalking back and stare at the screen, unable to get the missing word out of his head. He stopped sleeping. He pored through dictionaries and thesauri. He tried to read, but could not keep the word out of his mind long enough to finish a single page. His girlfriend would drag him away from the desk, make him sit down in the living room. It'll be alright, she would tell him. You just need to relax. He would sit for maybe half an hour, responding halfheartedly to her conversation, until she despaired and sent him back to the study. You worry too much.
After a month of this she gave up on him. He kissed her goodbye in the doorway, distractedly waved as the cab pulled away. He went straight back to his study, to the screen and the cursor, the word that he had lost. If he could only find the word again, he would think. If only I could find the word, everything will be alright. He had stopped trying to write at all. He would just sit at his desk, going through it in his mind again and again - "She tasted of lemons, and -" Lemons. She tasted of lemons and... The story no longer mattered. All that mattered was that line. That word. If he found the word, everything would go back to the way it was.
He didn't notice that he had lost weight. His eyes now held a haunted appearance that disturbed everyone who saw them. The few times friends visited - usually on his girlfriend's urging - they were unusually taciturn, and all of them found a reason to leave soon after arriving. His neighbours became used to seeing the light in his study shining all night, and his form seated at the desk, staring straight into the screen. After a time, people no longer tried to visit him. His girlfriend stopped trying to call him; he had stopped answering the phone long before that. Noone saw or heard anything of him, except when they saw him in the window at night.
Eventually, one of the neighbours became concerned, and called the police. The writer did not answer the door when they came, so one of the PCs kicked it open, and they all entered. They found the house silent - the rooms appeared as though undisturbed for weeks. At length they came to the third floor, and the door of the study. Inside, the writer sat at his desk, leaning over the laptop computer, head propped on the palm of one hand. When one of the constables touched his shoulder, he fell to the floor. On the screen a document was open, and a blinking cursor hovered beside the only word that had been written there: Lemons.
