Come in. Come in. Welcome to my home.
You've noticed I'm whispering. I'd ask that you keep your voice down as well. You see, I'm supposed to be dead. Or possibly sleeping. Or I've vacated the premises in favor of . . . something.

Anyway, I'm here, you're here. Let's chat for a bit. Have a seat. Sorry, sorry. I forgot you can't see in the dark. I would turn on the lights, but a light bulb in an empty house can't just switch on. Someone might get the wrong idea stuck in their head. You understand.

Alright. Here. I've got a wooden chair pulled up right behind you. Slowly back up until you feel a slight pressure on the back of your calves, then settle back onto it. No, I'm afraid I don't have any cushions. My cousin Morpheus took them all for his hole in the wall cafe.

You mentioned in your letter that you wanted to do an interview for your web journal. You can stop fumbling for your notepad and recorder. Number one: You are being entirely too loud about it. The sound of your pen scratching across the paper, the flipping of those ridiculously tiny pages that you insist on writing so large upon. Unacceptable. Number two: You can't see to write anyway. Number three: Your electronics will not work here. You'll need to rely on your memory and sense of narrative if you want to tell anyone about this visit.

Now, where would you like to start? Some prefer to start at the beginning and move forward; "all clocks move forward" seems to be their motto. Some in media res to stimulate interest. Some like to start after the present, then backtrack. Me personally?

I don't really mind any particular way so long as the story is told well. You do know that I can hear the whine of the tiny wheels of your tape recorder? I told you it won't work. But everyone has to try.

I see. We'll focus on the current trouble, as you call it. Personally, I don't see that there is any trouble, but I know what you're talking about. You have so many euphemisms. Dry spell. Rough patch. Juices aren't flowing. But the best and most accurate phrase is writer's block.

Just take a look at this letter, well, let me read it to you:

"Yesterday, I arrived as prescribed at my desk at precisely 7:03 AM. On previous mornings, I felt inspired by birdsong so I waited for the birds to begin to sing. In anticipation, I sharpened five pencils and faced the lettering to run east to west relative to the desk which is actually West to East since my desk faces South. (See attached Figure A for visual aid.) This pleasant incongruity was so inspiring, I determined that it, also, should become part of my routine. What else could I be doing to encourage creativity?"

This goes on for four more pages, with two additional figures. Do you want to guess why the letter ends? Because he runs out of time waiting for the birds to sing before he had to leave for work.

I may or may not have had something to do with his neighbor's dog scaring the birds from the trees at 7:01.

Because, look, you all treat me like I'm mystical. You try and dress me up as Calliope blowing air through a harp, or some primal monster fueled by repression and social commentary, bent on ripping down and raising up according to my whims.

The newest tiptoe around my house, carrying offerings and entreaties. The ones with a bit of time under their belts skulk at the fringes and throw rotten vegetables, curse me.

Both have the same problem. They are looking at me to enable them. I couldn't enable a lemming to fall off a cliff.

Do you want to know the most important part of this interview? There's a wall to your right. Reach out and touch it. If you move your hand up the wall, you'll feel a switch plate. I never said you couldn't turn on the light.

Don't be surprised when you find yourself alone, staring into a mirror.

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Created for the Wake Up, Writing Monster Exercise.