NOTE TO SELF

A sharp pain, an ice pick to the eardrum.  For a second your eyes crossed and you couldn’t move, then it passed.  Here and gone.  It was nothing. You shook it off, laced up your boots, grabbed your weapons and marched off to work.

You drove fast.  Traffic was always bad and it was a struggle to get there.  You noticed a bumper sticker on a car making a sharp left-hand turn against the red light.  What did it say?  “Dead End.”  What the hell did that mean?  You got to The Office, found a parking spot and went inside.

Every morning for the last couple of years you’ve put on your hair shirt, sat yourself down on pins and needles, and forced your novel to take another two steps forward.  You ignored the ticker tape at the bottom of your mind because you didn’t have time to read that message.

Then last Friday you took a coffee break.  There was a headline on a discarded newspaper in the recycle bin that read, “Surgeon General confirms that over-thinking leads to immobility.” You smiled and thought, “Duh” then dropped your biodegradable cup into the trash and rushed back to work.

Get out of my way, people. You stormed through the door, dropped down into your chair and switched on the noise reduction headphones. I have an important tale to tell.

You, Katie Arnoldi, pushed through each day with an army of self-importance at your back.  Nothing could stop you from telling this story.  You were the only one who could make this happen.  The world was depending on YOU.

But as you sat there last Friday, filled with iced coffee and two carne asada tacos, waiting for the engine to turn over in your subconscious and the story to pick up where you left off, you heard the distinct sound of an aircraft humming around in the back of your head.  It sounded vintage, like a prop plane, the kind that fly up and down the coast streaming banners with important messages.   The sound got louder.  It buzzed around your cerebrum like mosquitoes in a swamp.  You didn’t look up, a sense of desperation driving you to get back to work.   No time for distraction, you had too much to do.   The insect-like buzzing increased and it felt like something was biting you.  One plane, two planes, an entire squadron droning on and on.  There were welts on your arms and legs and the itching was pretty bad.  You kept your fingers on the keyboard but no words sprang forth.  Jets started taking off and landing, missiles fired in the background.   And still you kept your head down and tried to plow forward.  A bomb went off.  The air was suddenly thick with smoke and you began to cough.  It was then that you sat back, wiped your eyes and looked up.

And there, written in letters that took up every square inch of your universe, the sign said:

Your novel sucks.  The voice is flat.  Start over.

Of course you jumped up, drove to Staples and bought a notebook and three-hole paper.  When in doubt, buy supplies.  You rushed home and printed up the book in its entirety and then you spend the holiday weekend investigating.   What you found broke your heart.  It’s true.  You have to start over.

And so now you, Katie Arnoldi, after two years of flogging that dead-horse-of a-novel, are once again on page one.  This time maybe you will have learned your lesson.  Look up once in a while.  Read the damn signs!

Best of luck to you, sweetheart.   We’re rooting for you.  We know you can do it.