Black Hole Writing Block
 
It was a dark and stormy night…

Good Grief, here I am quoting Charles Schultz’s Snoopy to start my fifty something novel resurrecting my worn-out protagonist Tanner Blitzen.  Even hiding out in the woods of Vermont, where I have written every Tanner Blitzen book that currently rules the Fiction Murder Mystery section of Barnes and Noble.  

Next to perhaps Stephen King or Joyce Carol Oates, I am the most published author in the country.  You must’ve seen my name plastered on every social media platform.  Yes, I am Reynard Bostwick, prolific and renowned author who has been on the New York Times Best Seller List for over seven years. 
So, why the hell am I stuck in this cabin that smells like maple syrup and has one pot-belly stove to heat this dilapidated shack?  I’ll tell you, the Green Mountains of Vermont are my idea of a getaway writer’s retreat.  I have had immense success sequestering myself in this secluded corner of the world, but I feel the magic of this place has abandoned me this time.

I have been sitting here looking at my blank screen hearing my editor’s voice echo in my head.

“Rey, you are under contract and according to the contract, you have promised to have your next novel on my desk by Monday.” Drew Conners explains holding the signed contract in his hand. “Now, I must admit that this is a conversation we seldom have.  Your reputation as a prolific author is well established, but it seems we are at a crossroads.  I must remind you of your obligation.”
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“I am having a black hole writing block.” I shrug as I sit in his office like a student who has been sent to the principal’s office as he circles me like a shark before the big bite.

“Rey, what the heck does that mean?”

“I feel like I’ve been sucked into a black hole like the ones Dr. Stephen Hawking used to talk about.” 

“Yeah, so?” He shakes his head as he continues to circle.

“A black hole sucks everything, light, sound, ideas, everything.” I sit there waiting for the sentence to be passed down to me.

“I hope you have some kind of solution.” He hisses as he plops into the chair behind his desk.

The image of that moment of hopelessness has worn into my psyche and I feel as though I have dug my own grave and now I have to figure out a way out.  

The wind blows hard against my dilapidated door rattling as though it too is shivering.  How did Robert Frost endure this place?  He wrote about it.  Such rustic free verse like the original hippie, Walt Whitman only with wind and snow.

My fingers are numb, and I fear that frostbite will soon set in.  What on earth can I do with Tanner this time?  Perhaps I will kill him off like Arhur Conan Doyle did with Sherlock.

I leave my writer’s desk and place my frigid hand over the stove for warmth.  There isn’t much.  Even with the fire blazing within, the wind negates any heat that could possibly be of any true value to me.  I can see my breath as I exhale.

What am I going to do with Tanner Bostwick? Is this the last time I will be riding my money horse? 

I close my eyes hoping the absence of sight will make me feel a little warmer as if I was in a cocoon warm and cozy making this just another nightmare that will soon pass.

“Why are you going up there?” Meg, my wife asks me as I haul my geat out the front door and in the backseat of my car.  Meg has been a good sport all these years as I suffered for my art.

“Conners reminded me I owe him a manuscript by Monday.” I shrug as I open the front door.  Meg makes a clicking sound with her tongue as she shakes her head.  I give her a quick peck on the cheek as I leave.

The ride up here was tricky since there are so many switchbacks and curves in the road that require your full attention since the drop off is steep and vertiginous.  Even though I have driven this road many times it is still daunting since the snow adds yet another hazard.  I have heard horror stories from some locals about the gory and fatal outcomes of drivers who did not negotiate these hazards. I had no desire to add to some of the local lore.  
Stepping out of my car, I was introduced to the arctic blast awaiting me on the top of the hill. After spending the better part of an hour trying to light the fire with a box match and some very damp timber, I felt the numbing cold instantly invade. 

In the flickering darkness of the candlelight I was reduced to, I must say I was quite startled when I heard a knock at the rickety door.  What fool would venture out into my secluded retreat?  I must admit, I hesitated because what if this was a bloodthirsty psychopathic murderer like the one Tanner Blitzen would encounter.  How many novels have I written when I pitted Tanner against one of these types of killers?  I did not wish to be a victim of one of these antagonists. 

“Who’s there?” I called out with my hands still hovering over the flames inside my stove.

“It’s me.” Came the undefined answer.

“Me who?” I shuddered.

“Tanner Blitzen.” 

“Wha---?  You can’t be Tanner.  He’s fiction.” I shuddered again, “I made him up.” 

“I’m freezing.” 

Now my empathy and pity began to leak out of my heart.  I stood straight and walked to open the door.  When I did, I came face to face with my protagonist.

“It’s about time.” His arrogance came right from the pages of my writing.  He walked in as if he owned the place, hands on his hips, his head on a swivel as he scanned the room. “No heat?” 

“I’m doing the best I can.” I let the frustration leak into my voice.

“Good thing I happened along.” He walked in front of me as he looked inside the dying embers. “Let’s add some more.”

“Won’t do any good.” I argued.

“Nonsense.” He picked up a couple of pine.

“That will burn so quickly.” 

“Precisely.” He threw the pieces of wood into the stove.  Within a few minutes, the pine began to blaze. “There.”

It was warmer all of a sudden.

“That will make things a bit cozier.” He shrugged with arrogant confidence just as I had written him. With a quick turn of his sculpted chin, he inquired, “So, what is the problem you have encountered?”

“I have a writer’s block.” I could not believe I was talking to the detective that I had created.

“Hmmm.  Pity.” He acknowledged with a jerk of his head. “Wonder if I can help.  What were you planning this time around?” 

“Honesty.  I was going to kill you off.” I admitted.

“Not on your life.” He turned his head to glare at me with his crystal blue eyes he used to gain a number of female admirers. 

“Even Sherlock Holmes was killed off by Morarity.” I pointed out.

“Who?  Who did you have in mind?” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Daggle.” I answered.

“Rufus Daggle?  Really.” He shook his head.

“Then who?” 

“I dunno, maybe Belinda Heinz.” He squinted.

“I thought you did her in.” 

“Oh, I did, didn’t I?” He shrugged his right shoulder. “It’s a good thing I came before you made a mess of things.” 

“Mess of things, indeed.” I huffed as Tanner sat at the table where my laptop cursor was blinking. “Seems like you are stuck.” 

“Yes, that’s what a writer’s block is, you idiot.” 

“No need to call me names.” He turned his head away from me.

“Why not?  I wrote you.” I shot back.

“Still…” He looked at the seven words I had written, “This is it?  This is all you have written in the past few hours you have been here?”

How did he know I had been here a few hours?  Was he watching me?  Was he stalking me? 

“It’s called a writer’s block.” I snapped.

“I know, but this is worse than I had imagined.”

“Have you ever had a writer’s block?” 

“Of course not, I am not a writer.” He laughed.

I did not think that was funny.  And so I asked, “What do you plan on doing?” 

“I will help you.” He smiled, “All these years you have put me in all sorts of tight spots and then graciously got me out of them.  I figured I owed you.  So, I will write this book for you.” 

“You will?” I was aghast at his intention.

“Certainly. Third person omniscient, I presume.” 

“Always.” I nodded.

“Very well.” He began to type and words appeared on the screen.  I felt as though Meta was creating the storyline. Tanner was a smooth hand at the keyboard.  At this rate, I felt I would be in Mr. Conner’s office on Monday with a finished manuscript. Was I the only author who ever had his protagonist write his next novel? Maybe he was right, he owed me. 

“What do you want to do when you graduate?” Meg asked me after we moved into an efficiency apartment during my senior year at Columbia University. We had been a couple since our sophomore year. When we talked about our future, I never considered marriage.  After watching my parents suck at it, I figured marriage was not worth the hassle. The only thing I learned from what they went through was a list of foul words they called each other. 
But faced with a real future, I was undecided.  The only thing I was any good at it seemed was writing. 

“I dunno.” I lay under a tree in the commons.  It was my favorite tree.  It was a spreading oak.  I opened the book I was reading.

“We will be graduating in two months.” She bit her lip which at the time was just something she did.  She did not want to tell me she was pregnant. 

Honestly, I don’t know what my reaction would have been.

“I guess I want to be a writer.” I admitted.

“Anything else.” 

“Why would there be anything else?” 

“Because writing is a hard occupation.” She shook her head.

“What if I teach it?”

“At least that would be steady.” She stroked my hair as my head rested on her lap.

A few years later with the help of my agent, Tom Brooks, I sold my first manuscript.  It was the birth of Tanner Blitzen.  I was listening to some stock Christmas carols on the radio when I gave Tanner his surname.  I reminded Meg after our wedding, that writing was what I was made to do.  She bit her lip and said, “I still think that writing is a slippery slope.” 

“Maybe it is.” I chucked, “But it just got us a down payment on our first home.” 

 
I have to admit, she was a good sport as my time was taken with book promotions, two films, and on tour with a talk show circuit.  

But lately, I’ve felt like I have been struggling to keep up.  There is no mercy once you find yourself in a black hole.  It started about two years ago when my book did not have the commercial appeal it needed.  I missed some of the expectations people had with Tanner.  I began to wonder how Ian Flemming kept 007 viable and practical.  I wondered if he ever fell into a black hole writer’s block.  

“I’ve got to be honest with you, Rey.” Tom Brooks sat me down in his office, “Your book was boring.” 

“I had all the usual car chases and bullets flying…” I began, but he raised his hand to stop me.

“I get it. Writing is hard.  Once you say something, saying it again is just repeating yourself.  Readers find that boring.” 

“I did not-”

He raised his hand again, “The New York Time has a book review that openly wonders if you have lost your Midas touch. Frankly, I tend to agree with them, but I know this is just a slump you are in.” 

“I am at a loss.” I shrugged, “I thought I could get through it.” 

The truth was that I was still going through the grief of the death of my son in an automobile accident.  When he was born, the doctor told Meg and me that she would be unable to have any more naturally born children.  So for eighteen years, Damon would be an only child. It was alright by me, but Meg wanted to have another child.  We explored adoption, but this did not seem like an avenue we wanted to go down for a myriad of reasons.  

When Damon turned eighteen, he and some of his friends went for a trip to the beach.  One of them smuggled some vodka as I was told later.  On the drive home, apparently Damon was impaired and their vehicle hit a semi head on.  All four boys died in the wreck. 

I want to write about grief, but there’s no way that can happen in a Tanner Blitzen detective story.  There is no room for grief there.  When I walk in the door in the evenings, grief comes up to greet me every time whether it’s Meg with that look in her eye or something that makes me remember.  Memories are like a thousand paper cuts as each cut digs deeper and deeper until you want to scream and howl.  

“Whadda think?” Tanner pushed my laptop toward me as I sat at the table across from him.  

I scanned it over. It was good.  He smiled, “Well?” 

“I think this is good enough.” I sighed with my head resting on my fist.

“Good?  This is better than good.” He shook his head.

“I’ve been writing you for several years and there are some that are better than others, but I know you better than I know anyone else, because I am you.” 

He sat there with a stunned look on his face.

“That’s right.” I sighed.

“You, you…were going to kill me off with some thug.” He was trembling as he spoke, his face was red with anger. 
“If I killed you off, it might end the grief I have been going through these past two years…when my son was taken from me.” Now I was trembling as tears rolled down my cheek.
 
“Yeah, dad, I want to go with my friends to the beach for my eighteenth birthday.  Jeremy’s folks have a cottage out there.” He explained.
“I suppose so, Damon.  You are an adult after all.” 

“Rey, it’s a long drive.  Are you sure?  You know how traffic can be out there.” Meg shook her head.

“Yeah, but he’s eighteen now, dear.” I put my hand over hers as we sat at the kitchen table.

“Thanks dad, I’ve got to get ready.  They’ll be here shortly.” He smiled as he walked away.  I had no way of knowing those would be the last words he’d ever say to me.
 

“So, what do you want to do?” Tanner stood there looking down at me.

“I dunno.” I admitted, “If I use this, I will be guilty of plagiarism.”
 
“So what?  I give you permission.” Tanner insisted.

“Why?  What is in it for you?” 

“I will become immortal.  Who knows maybe even a movie with Ryan Reynolds playing me.  Huh?  Wouldn’t that be the icing on the cake?” His smile turned into a grimace.  The wind rattled the door in one strong burst. I heard the knock on the door and when I opened Officer Bronkowski told me my son was dead.  I heard Meg scream as I fell to my knees.  

“No.” I said as I hit control-Alt-Delete before saving the document.

“How could you do that?” Tanner howled like the wind outside the door. His voice became just another echo in the maelstrom inside my head.  With the stroke of a couple of keys that which was, was no more.  No manuscript, no cliffhangers, no Ryan Reynolds. All gone.

Tanner began to disappear until he was no more than an invention of my imagination.  I was alone once again in the cabin with my laptop.  Wiping the tears from my face, I sat down at the table where the screen showed a blank page.  That’s what it was and always will be, a blank page that contains a shattered story.  Grief would find me here, but I would find my way out of my black hole writer’s block.

And so, I began to type.
​
“It was a dark and stormy night…” 
 

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