A Writer's Disease

My name is Dane, I think I’m a cool guy but I think something’s wrong with me. The camouflaged signs and symptoms were present but ignorance ushered me through them. Similar to drugs for a druggy I got high by writing.

Systematically I eliminated life’s sub-genres in order to quench my habit. So what if I stopped playing racquetball with my friends, and Sushi with a pretty lady a replaced by pounding on a keyboard, isn’t weird. Alarm-bells should’ve rung when I stopped showering on a regular basis.

I blame awkward silence for exposing snippets of my ailment. Where awkward silence lurked I’d expose it then destroy it with some witty banter. In a line at the grocery store, an elevator, a sauna, sullen people who needed a smile, all contributors to my addiction to spew forth.

My problem exacerbated by social media, and all its platforms. My urges to speak have morphed into an uncontrollable need to opine. Opine in the form of writing, the internet was my sauna, my elevator full of subjects.

YouTube comments, Instagram posts, my LinkedIn responses were beyond epic as inspirational quotes from the Haves, coupled with hundreds of praise-based, butt-kissing comments from the Have-Nots drove me to insert myself into the mix.

I lurked in the spaces of Quora like lecherous pig waiting to pounce on the unexpected. I voluntarily engaged anyone, I couldn’t stop.

A traffic ticket for driving through a red-light while composing the next article or a rewrite joined forces with that damn Twitter App. Together they slapped the alphabetical-haze from my smug fingertips. Twitter has the nerve to engage me, than Twitter limits my response time with a characters-remaining-countdown!

The cop responded to my driving faux pas by authoring me a big fat ticket.

The first step to recovery was to admit, I’m a freak. No more lying to friends, no falling asleep at 3 AM, mid-sentence.

I heard about some eccentric doctor who specialized in esoteric illnesses. After a brief explanation as to why I was calling they instructed to send all my writing material, digital and printed to their lab for a battery of tests and analysis.

Two weeks later I arrived at an early 1900’s colonial style home in the foothills. I’m not being a lazy writer when I tell you that the Doc closely resembled Doc Brown from Back To The Future, complete with full length, disheveled lab coat, and drifting moods of deep thought that segued quickly into jerky-ah-ha moments. I immediately thought this visit was going to be worthy of an article.

The doc was cool, he felt like my teammate as he informed me that I had a disease that has yet to be recognized by the medical community; however the phycology profession has been aware of the malady for some time. He went from introspective calm to hyper-drive when he said.

“The severity of your infection demands that I officially affix a name to it! Ready? You have a severe case of, Anti-Writer’s-Block!”

Anti-Writer’s-Block? The clumsy name doesn’t deter from the multitude of problems associated with the ailment.

The Doc continued.

“Your case is severe; the creative part of your brain is lit up like a Christmas tree. The rest of your brain is nearly dormant because the disease overrides most other thought processes, concerns and desires. Did you ever drive through stop signs and red lights, or thought you ran stop signs and red lights?”

“Yes!” I jumped up and shouted.

“The cure for your illness is simple, you’ve written brilliant TV ads, example.”

The doctor frantically dug into a stack of papers that I had sent as ordered. He found what he was looking for, then struck a Napoleon-type pose and proceeded to act both parts.

“A thirty something man in suit attire points to the camera/audience.

In a stern yet approachable voice the man speaks the line.

“There’s only one thing I don’t like about work, and that’s looking for it!”

The doc switched to a deep narrator voice. “We hear you, INDEED we do.”

The doctor looked up from the script, and commented.

“Send your material to the proper people, use your disease to generate income and live happily ever after. Send this Indeed-commercial to Indeed.

“I did.”

The doc was beyond adamant as he continued.

“I’ve had patients with Anti-Writer’s-Block and they were terrible writers. Imagine the horror in that conundrum. You’ve written hilarious comedy bits, in the hands of someone like Bill Burr your material is Netflix Is A Joke worthy. You know who Bill Burr is?”

“Heck yeah, I love Bill Burr. The 10-cent plastic bags-suddenly-free because of Covid-sketch was created with him in mind.”

I started drifting towards that dream-state, the place I go when I imagine my material being used, that far-away contented place, that same dreamscape I inhabit while driving through red-lights.

“Great, your disease is working for you and not against you. You only need to set reasonable limits for writing, no need to obsess. You’re a professional writer with a decade worth of income-generating material. You needn’t be consumed by constant writing, and please consider taking a shower.” The Doctor laughed, I sniffed at my armpit and he fell into an old cluttered recliner. His childlike naivety was equal to his passion for my well-being.

I hated to blur his focus and pull the doc down a peg, but I’m far from cured.

It was time to educate the educated, but first the doc flew out of his chair and snatched an old three-ring binder I’ve been hanging onto.

“What’s this?”

“It’s something I always carry for submission possibilities or spur of the moment ideas, or when I hear a cool word that I want to use in the future so I can sound smarter than I am. This big-ole binder is my security blanket.”

The doctor tossed my security blanket aside, grabbed something from his desk and said.

“Here’s your new security blanket, it’s a little-black-book. Part of your wellness is to unclutter, this little-black-book is medicine.” The doc flopped back into his chair, he spoke matter-of-factly.

“How much did Indeed pay you for that commercial? And these articles, I love the story of you teaching your dad how to use his first smartphone, where were they published and how much? Your book, with the all-encompassing, non-violent-revenge reminded me of the Shawshank Redemption, surely a studio has optioned it. You’re not infected my friend.”

Instead of regaling the doc with my financial gains, I was about to burst his bubble of innocence. To do this, I had to stand, I needed to pace, the doc’s head swiveled to follow.

Let me tell you about a closely guarded, impenetrable wall that kills anything and anyone who attempts to pass. Not everybody knows the wall exists.”

“What is this wall you speak of?”

As dramatic as possible I answered.

“No Unsolicited Submissions!” A long pause as the confused doc wondered where this wall is, he’s never seen it.

“I sent a two page synopsis of my book to at least a hundred Hollywood-movie-type people. I started with Johnny Depp and Quentin Tarantino.”

“Great, did they like it?” The docs question reminded me of my past ignorance.

“I received a hundred exact responses. I’m paraphrasing but the response went like this. ‘We did not read this material, we do not accept unsolicited submissions, we don’t give a damn what you wrote, we couldn’t care less about your literary-goals. How dare you even consider bothering us. All of these responses were signed by at least one attorney.”

I could sense the doc drifting to a far-away place.

I continued.

“Indeed, the job-search company sent me a Cease & Desist order. Along with a pdf of their Terms Of Service agreement. They were kind enough to highlight the part that states, ‘Any ideas or suggestions or advice for promotion and comments become our exclusive property.’

The doc has heard enough, he’s messing with his white, long, scraggly hair. He stopped fussing with his mane then split his closed lips with a vertical index finger. From frozen thought to a sudden leap, he paced, I sat. The doc frantically searched through my papers, tossing some left then right, some were sent airborne. Frustrated, he relocated to his computer and performed the equivalent of paper tossing, he scrolled like a teen on Tic Tok. The ah-ha moment revealed his find. Doc composed his himself, we fell into a mutual, long, serene silence, the cozy-calm you share with your best friends. I already admire this guy and consider him my friend.

All moments of silence eventually end, doc’s moment of silence ended with cannon-shot. He was up and moving rapidly.

“I’ve told you about the poor souls infected with Anti-Writers-Block, but can’t write. But,

I haven’t told you about two former patients of mine that we’re infected. They couldn’t stop creating, so much creativity they cross-pollinating all genres the same as you. One guy got divorced, and the other guy got-homeIess .” The doc laughed then continued.

“You see what I did there? I make jokey-joke. And those two guys beat the No-Submissions-Wall, I don’t know how, but, I do know them.”

Excited I stood. “Who are they? What did they write? Are they cured, I mean are they successful?”

“Back then their illness was classified as obsessive-compulsive. Anti-Writer’s-Block was classified by you and me. We’ll go down in history.” The doctor laughed again, his mood changed drastically after finding the file on his computer. He pulled me by the arm to show me. It was my Slogan file, random thoughts and stuff, he read one.

“Labels Belong on Packages Not People.” That’s what the doc read aloud. Not my favorite slogan, but not a bad sentiment. The doc shared his thoughts about it.

“Imagine a shopper strolling the cookie aisle, a plain white package, void of all ho-hum text, art or color catches her eye. She, or he leans in for a closer look, then retrieves the top package, in large, plain black font she sees only this, Labels Belong On Packages Not People. With a whimsical grin she places it her cart, grabs two more and rolls off into the sunset.”

“Doc, I can’t believe you just pitched the identical campaign that I’ve sent to the bigtime food and beverage brands. Terms of Service doc, it’s futile, it’s embarrassing.”

“Leave it to me, where’s your little black book. Got it?”

“I think,” I said as patted my pockets till I felt it.

Pre-occupied, the doc hurried me out, he said he’d be in touch and that was that.

Back home I wanted to write something, maybe a story about the doctor visit. I pulled the black book out to scribble a few notes, and you want to know something? Each time I started writing a note I’d drop the book, it was so tiny I couldn’t hold onto it and a pen. I tossed the little black book aside, took a shower and went to the gym to play racquetball. My friends were amazed by my presence.

A month later I was ordered back to the doc’s office for a follow-up. The doctor had died and styled his hair, no lab coat. He looked sharp in his slimming dress-pants, Italian loafers and silk shirt. He was also adorned with a startling air-of-calm.

Absent were the jerky stops and starts, this cat was a chameleon of hip, and he was up to something.

He handed me a check for $20,000 and started to explain.

“In the near future keep an eye out while shopping.”

“You sold it?” I yelled. “to who?”

“Can’t tell you just be vigilant in the cookie section.”

Me and the doc hugged, my eyes moistened.

“This is only the beginning, your book is next. Speaking of books, how’s that little black book working for you?”

“It’s not working, I haven’t written since you gave it to me.”