Monday, May 16, 2005

The ignorant believe Writer’s Block is simply another locale, a mere destination for tourists and their laminated checklists to languish. The wise would like to believe the same thing, and in fact some manage to delude themselves into temporary relief. They are usually the ones who’ve never been.

“I must remember to visit the cozy restaurant my sister recommended,” one woman will remind herself half-heartedly. “Or maybe catch a show, that’d be fun. Dunno why people are so grumpy about going. I’ll take some pictures, send a few postcards. You know, leave a piece of myself there.”

But Writer’s Block isn’t a place that accepts pieces of yourself. It takes and takes with ravening abandon. I only wish I were being figurative.

While I leaned sleepily on her shoulder, Muse stared nervously out the window, watching the raw speed of the train devour the countryside. She sat up with a jolt. My reverie was over.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said with finality.

Now it was my turn to be startled.

“What?” I exclaimed. “Why are you saying this?”

One glance and I knew she was serious.

“Look, it’s sweet of you to come, but–” she paused with a sigh. “I should’ve made the trip alone.”

“But you’re always drained after you return,” I protested, “so I thought I’d give you some support this time.”

Muse gave a tired smile and shook her head sadly. She closed her eyes and told me about the Auditor.

He is an old, bitter man with sunken eyes and a shattered nose, she said, and he has sharp teeth and a long tongue. By an unfortunate twist of fate, he is also a public official, the sole supplier of letters, which he will only dispense in exchange for some of your being. That’s why everyone must visit him, unless they wish to become mute. In the past, Muse endured losing a part of herself–“the very marrow of my soul,” she explained–because she had the uncanny ability to heal quickly.

“Except this time…this time it’s going to be different. I just know it,” she gravely whispered, on the verge of tears.

“It’s going to be okay. We’ll make it,” I said hollowly.

It was unsettling to see Muse in this state. She was supposed to have all the answers, poise to spare. I leaned over and looked out the window in a vain search for conviction. There was none to be found.