Writer's Block

The confessions of a best-selling author.

 

“Tonight I’m going to kill myself.”

      That was the first line of my first novel.  It’s called a “grabber.”  And the name is pretty self explanatory.  It grabs your attention.  It gets you interested.  It makes you say to yourself:

“Well...I wonder where this is going?”

So, you read on until you’re interested.  Hooked. Enthralled.  Addicted.

A book is like a drug: some are the best you’ve ever had.  Others not so good, and you wish you’d never read it.

The opening line of a book is by far the most important.  An average person has a very small attention span.  You have at most 15 words to “grab” them, otherwise you lose their attention and they don’t read your book.

I did it in six:

“Tonight I’m going to kill myself.”

It’s called a “grabber.”  And it did exactly what it’s supposed to.

The book sold 2 million copies, to date.  Not bad for a 19 year-old kid, with only a year of college under his belt, and a slew of “F”s in high school English for “poor writing skills.”

My teacher must have been really surprised when I sent her when I sent her a signed copy, along with the best seller list.  Debuting at number five it’s first week, the book went straight to number one its second week, where it stayed for 5 months.  Not bad for someone who never intended to write anything.

The book has been translated into German and Spanish, and, though, it wasn’t as successful in Europe, I was never disappointed.  Except once.  My publisher had a deal to translate into French, but the French publishers said they didn’t think French people would get it. 

I shrugged it off:

We’ll make a deal when they’re being less French, I told him.  My publisher laughed at that, and said I should make that the basis for my next book: “being less French.”

I joked about it, but I didn’t get why the éditeur said French people wouldn’t get it.  French is the language of love.  And that’s what the book was about.  My book was about love.  My book was about the heart.  A broken one, anyway.

It was about a freshman in college, who falls in love with a girl.  It was about how he’s never met another girl like her.  I dedicated an entire chapter all the wonderful things I could see this character saying about her.  All the time’s I wrote, “I love you,” in the book, it’s enough to make you heave. 

He loves her, she loves him; he loves her more, no she loves him more:

“You hang up first.”

“No, you hang up first.”

It was a brutal writing process.  Was it brutal because I abhor the cheesiness? 

No, it was brutal because it was all true.  And what makes me crack up about it is that no one knows.  Every single word is true, and no one is the wiser.

“I’ve got a room on the 10^th floor of this hotel, the window’s open, and the pavement is waiting for a kiss, like my Great Aunt Sally at a Christmas Party.” This was the second line in my book.

This wasn’t true. 

I had pills.

Lots of pills.

Bottles of pills that I swiped from my Great Aunt Sally. 

Xanex, Ambien, Plavix, Vioxx, Vicoden.  Some Viagra from my Great Uncle Tommy, which was accidental.

That was something I changed later, when I had to edit the “real” stuff out.

“All that’s left now is the infamous note.”  The third line.

Well that’s what my book started out as: a note.  Just my last thoughts before I swallowed some pills.

Lots of pills.

Bottles of pills.

So I started writing. 3 pages. And writing. 18 pages.  And writing. 37 pages.  I couldn’t stop.  I was interested. 53.  Hooked. 72.  Enthralled. 93.  Addicted.  116. 

I figured, if they know: ‘Who?  How?  Where? And When?’  They might as well know ‘Why?’ too.  That seems fair.

“Dimples and an English accent get me every time.” 

They still do.  When I moved into my college dorm I never thought I’d meet someone from Stratford-upon-Avon.  “That’s where Shakespeare is from,” she would tell everyone.  But there she was, right across the hall.  Brown hair, brown eyes, and a cute smile. Dimples and an English accent get me every time.  We started dating and we fell in love.  That kind of love that makes you sick to see:

“You hang up first.”

“No, you hang up first.”  Meanwhile we’re right across the hall from each other. 

It’s enough to make you heave.

She wasn’t the first girl I had sex with, but I wanted her to be the last. 

We we’re young, and in love.  We were happy.

She was a Theater major, I was undecided.  I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life.  I didn’t care as long as I could spend it with her.  My darling, Josephine. 

I was young, and in love.  I was happy.  And stupid.

It turned out my darling Josephine wasn’t so darling after all.  Over the summer she had gone on tour with an acting troupe, which went up and down the Northeast.  For three months we didn’t see each other.  It was the longest we had been away from one another.  It was very painful, for both of us.

And then I found out that, apparently, in England monogamy means, f**k everything anything with a Y chromosome.

She was spotlight: on your face every night.  And in her play every guy had a lead role: the director; the Stage Manager; the light guy; the prop master; the sound guy.  The guy with every line; the guy with two lines; the guy with no lines; and everyone in between.

“You hang up first.”

“No, you hang up first.”  Meanwhile she’s being double teamed by two stage hands.

Needless to say we broke up.

She wasn’t the first girl I’ve ever loved, but I wanted her to be the last.

“And that’s why I’m shaking myself loose the mortal world.  Punching my own ticket, as the crude would say,” began last that chapter of the book. 

Of course, my book was much longer.  It came out to being 111 pages. 115 in some printings. 103 in the German version. I’m still not sure how that happened.

Of course I changed names, dates, and events around slightly.  Josephine became Annabelle.  Annabelle wasn’t an actress, she was co-directing, you know bullshit like that.  She was a Southern Bell whose parents were English.  Et Cetera. Et Cetera. 

The next novel I wrote was just as my publisher suggested about ‘being less French.’  It was written in a somewhat different style.  And it was, my publisher said, because of that, the book tanked.  It got horrible reviews and sold nowhere near as well as the debut.

After the second book tanked, I really didn’t want to write anything else.  My publisher though, said that I needed to fulfill my contract and give them another book.  So, I took two years off looking for the story I would tell. 

What came out of it was a Sci-Fi epic, which has been my best seller so far.  Rave reviews; bestseller’s list for 96 weeks; I even won a few awards. 

No one realized I just rewrote Hamlet. 

Not bad for a sick of love, 23 year-old, who had almost killed himself 4 years prior.

This was also the first time I dedicated one of my books: To Josephine, whom without, I wouldn’t have a career.

I sent her a signed copy.  I haven’t heard from her yet.

“Thank you for listening.  Good-bye.”

That was the last line of my first novel.

It’s called ambiguity.

Someone, I forget who, but someone, once said that a great writer could never commit suicide, because his suicide note would turn into his greatest book.  That was half true for me. 

My first novel started out as a suicide note.  I was up for 27 hours writing my 122 page suicide note. 

And when I had finished it, I realized something:

How stupid was I?  I was sitting in a hotel, with pills.  Lots of pills. Bottles of pills.  About to kill myself for some stupid girl.  Why flatter her that way? She doesn’t deserve that. 

And then I realized something. 

Why not just get back at her?  So I looked at the pills, and I looked at the 122 page suicide note.  And I said to myself, F**k her.

So, I edited and added to the 122 suicide note.  And two weeks later I sat in an office trying to sell my, now, 116 page “novel.” 

I still can’t believe I got away with it.  A 116 page inside joke.  A 116 page book about my ex-girlfriend.  116 pages of revenge.  I don’t get why the éditeur said French people wouldn’t get it.

But now, its three years since my last novel, and I’ve got nothing left to write.  I’ve had my mute revenge; I’ve gotten back at the French; I’ve won a few awards; I’ve helped make a movie; I’ve even been on television.  Not bad for a 27 year old writer that can’t seem to write anymore. 

And then I realized something.

So, now I’m back, where it all started: that hotel room on the 10^th floor.  Maybe I’ll be inspired again.  Or maybe I’ll finally finish what I came here to do eight years ago.

What’s left for me?  I don’t think there’s anything else left.  What more could I get?

Love: been there, done that.

Since Josephine, there really hasn’t been anyone else for me; she was the one; she was the only.  I know that.

Fame and fortune: been there, hated that.

I’ve peaked at 27.  Not bad.  I could’ve not peaked at all.

Who wants to get old anyway?

Someone once said that a writer could never commit suicide, because his suicide note would turn into his greatest work.

Who knows?  I certainly don’t.

      People still ask me; did the character end up killing himself?

I ask them what they think.

They say, Yes. 

      And I say, Yes he did.

      I ask them what they think.

      They say, No.

And I say, No he didn’t.

It’s called ambiguity.

      “Thank you for listening. Good-bye.”

Reviews

[Raef C. Boylan]

Wow [s**t, second time I've said that to you in a review].
Great use of repetition, which we do in our heads a lot, so I really related to your narrator. Also excellent technique...first line and last line just as described.
Really impressed by your two stories that I've read so far. They both felt real, and were both compelling and exciting.

I don't know if your typos were deliberate, because of him saying he got Fs in school, but:
"My teacher must have been really surprised when I sent her [when I sent her]"
"Debuting at number five it's first week" [its]
"but I didn't get why the �diteur" [just checking: that's the French for editor, yeah?]
"I dedicated an entire chapter [to?] all the wonderful"
"All the time's I wrote, "I love you," in the book" [times]
"We we're young, and in love." [were]
"f**k everything [and?] anything with a Y chromosome."
"why I'm shaking myself loose [from/of?] the mortal world"
"But now, its three years since my last novel" [it's]
"Not bad for a 27 year old writer that can't seem to write anymore." [that = who?]

Other than those, this is 100% publishable.
Thanks for sharing it with us.

[Mike Mitchell]

Yes the typos are deliberate, b/c I figured that the narrator isn't proofreading. And most of those typos are things that I do all the time, just normally, like adding apostrophes when they shouldn't be there, or missing words.