Boulder Rolling

A writer sat down at his computer desk, coffee pot in hand, to begin again at the job of his latest story assignment.

He had been awake all through the previous night, pounding madly at his keys, until his knuckles were sore, only to reach what he thought was the end. Upon rereading, however, he realized there was some inconsistency in plot, or flaw in character, that he just could not live with.

Finally, at dawn, he allowed himself an hour and a half of fitful sleep.

Immediately upon arising, he dragged his rumpled, pajamaed self to the bathroom, barely climbing out of the faded blue cotton drawstring pants and soup-stained t-shirt in which he practically lived since deciding to work from home.

As the blessed steaming water from the shower flooded over his shoulders, and as he rubbed the attempted sleep from his eyes, he became conscious of the sad fact that if he continued to “work” from home, he would never get anything accomplished.

He sudsed himself and rinsed, then clad himself again, dripping, in his filthy uniform, for lack of energy to choose anything clean. At that moment, he heard his favorite sound in the world… the bing that signified to him the coffee was ready!

Groggily, he lazed to the kitchen, opened the industrial sized box of toaster pastries that had become his mainstay, unwrapped two of them from their crinkly cocoon, and slid them into the toaster.

He watched them with the impatience of an eight year old on Christmas morning, as they went from a pale yellow to a delicious golden brown, and as the air filled with their sweet chocolate scent, up they sprang. He plated them, poured his coffee into a conference-style urn, stuck his gigantic chipped black mug under his arm, and padded into his office.

He sat, to the frustration of what was quickly becoming a Sisyphean task, turning out an ending he, and more importantly, his editor, could live with.

His beginnings were always strong, committed, interesting, exciting even. He loved to begin a story. He had to stop himself occasionally from commencing with “Once upon a time…” he had so much fun with beginnings.

He had no problems with control… he liked to let his characters meander through woods Eco himself would be proud of. He enjoyed the process of accompanying them on their journeys, relished listening to them speak, peeked into their minds to see and then report their private thoughts. He felt a sense of pride as they took on flesh, dreams, disappointments, happiness, as they created their own realities.

But as he climbed over the rocks in the arc, he always had this sense of foreboding; could almost hear a Vincent Price-like voice announce, “The end is near!!!” and then cackle with wicked glee as he was presented with the horrifying duty of bringing it all together, in some kind of neat bundle, or messy death, or having to watch helplessly as they rode off buoyantly into a red and gold sunset, leaving him behind to have to begin all over again.

He was growing weary of the process, of saying goodbye to these people he’d created, to dastardly villains and gallant heroes and wispy maids with whom he always fell in love. Why could he not simply go off with them? Why did he have to watch as they attained riches and realized dreams and solved problems when he was stuck, sculpting them and then mourning them, day in and day out? Why?

He needed a break. He needed a change of scenery. He looked out the window and it dawned on him he’d been writing again, all day, with no end in sight, and that the afternoon sun was ready to punch out and give way to the next shift; the dusk would be upon him soon and then the next day it would start all over again.

He rose from his desk. He knew what he had to do! He practically ran to his bedroom closet, opened it, and sorted through his drab wardrobe until he found what he was looking for.

He sat at the edge of his bed and dressed himself in indigo jeans, a work shirt, a worn pair of Dan Posts with silver tipped toes, and on his head he carefully placed the big, brown felt Atwood he hadn’t worn since country line dancing had been fashionable. He strode out the back door of his house, put his ring finger and thumb in his mouth, and whistled for his trusty steed, Pecos.

As a cloud of dust and the exhilarating clop of hooves filled the air, he picked up his hand tooled saddle and tossed it on to the back of his four-footed friend. Then he stepped into the stirrup, climbed aboard, let out a whoop of freedom and delight, and rode off into his own sunset.

The End