Blocked, Blocked, and Never Called Me Mother 

By Gaie Sebold

Summer on way, though not accompanied by any noticeable warmth, sunshine or cessation of constant freezing horizontal rain. Still, one summer tradition being kept up-- dire warnings about water shortages. Particularly irritating when cold rain running down neck. 

Early summer dawns should be source of new energy, joy, etc., but instead bring inevitable sense of guilt for not leaping out of bed and rushing about Doing Stuff by six a.m. Grandma no doubt would be scrubbing step by now. (Never really sure what point of scrubbing step, but still feel guilty for not doing it). Also feeling guilty about scruffy, neglected garden, unwashed windows suddenly revealed by brief flicker of sunlight, and above all about poor, miserable novel which has ceased to merely mope and is now in Intensive Care. Need Dr. House to come and glare at it. Sure his anti-bedside manner and strangely attractive rudeness would have novel on feet and doing push-ups in no time, out of sheer shame.  

In sad absence of Dr. House, decide to rise earlier and return to bed with laptop in order to try and take advantage of morning brain, fresh from mystic realms of Sleep and brimming with ideas, while Inner Critic still snoozing in its bed (no doubt of hard planks, possibly even nails, broken glass, etc.).  

Sadly Inner Critic catches on after about three days and sets own alarm even earlier, in order to come bouncing bossily in, already showered after brisk three mile run, to peer at single miserable sentence have managed to construct and point out its shortcomings with perfectly manicured fingernail. 

Tell Inner Critic to Go Forth And Multiply, but she refuses. 

Give up and slouch off to work like rough beast, arrive late. Should use lunch hour for writing but instead tempted away to garden center, where drool over gorgeous plants cannot afford and buy large trays of cheap ones instead. Garden center getting v. dark, customers and staff glancing nervously upwards, all flinch as one when skies open and rain machine guns glass roof. For some reason sudden excess weather induces Blitz Spirit, much laughter, exchange of gardening advice with total strangers, etc. Charmed by two elderly ladies in matching Barbours reduced to raptures by particularly lush clematis, and wish was one of them. Wonder if will have Life Worked Out by time am 70, but somehow doubt it.

Lug plants back to work and thence home. Spend entire blissful weekend in garden, slashing, hacking, and planting.  

Should be metaphor for working on novel, but isn't. Novel comatose, dangling its truncated sentence, and awaiting major surgery. Needs transplants, transfusions, and probably those zappy things that get heart going. Inner Critic is standing at end of hospital bed, looking at watch, shaking head and glancing longingly at plug on novel's life support system. Must not allow Inner Critic to murder novel. Must infuse novel with life-giving words.     

Attempt Early Morning Writing again. Awoken at unfeasible hour by solemn tones of news, and fumble for snooze key. Fail to hit it before stabbings, murders, and eco disasters have seeped evilly into ears; inducing desire not so much to awake and create as to pull covers over head and sleep for ever more. Obviously should not be writing, especially should not be writing frivolous fantasy. Should be out there saving world, dedicating life to Those Less Fortunate and putting planet back together with bare hands; am completely worthless person who cannot even finish pointlessly frivolous novel. 

Recognize voice of Inner Critic. Groan. Why Inner Critic not need sleep?  Try to point out flaw in logic-- after all, if novel completely frivolous then cannot be considered worthless person for failure to finish same, but Inner Critic merely flexes muscles and laughs nastily, then attempts to glare at cat. 

Cat utterly impervious to criticism of any sort, and ignores Inner Critic. Wish was cat.  

Inner Critic gives self final prod for sitting here criticizing self instead of writing, and having ruined day, flies off, yanking vital tube from novel's innards as she goes. 

Novel groans, eyelids flutter, screen goes flatline, machines beeping frantically; where Dr. House?  Where bevy of concerned nurses with drugs and zappy things?   

Alas, am bereft, like much of modern Health Service, of doctors, nurses, and equipment. Nothing but self, caffeine, and lapful of cat with which to revive novel.  

Can novel be saved?  Or is it doomed to join failed predecessors, comatose on hard-drive with all major bits missing, like people in Coma?   

Realize Coma published absolutely ages ago, and feel old. Should not be thinking about other people's books anyway. Should be writing own. Pat novel's limp hand helplessly, and fan it with copy of Bird by Bird. 
 
 

Gaie Sebold's short stories have appeared in, among others, Black Gate, City Slab, and Legend and she has received an Honorable Mention in Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Her first fantasy novel (first publishable novel, that is) is now with an agent and she is currently working on her second. She is a member of T Party Writers and commits occasional poetry readings. Her first poetry collection, Urban Fox (The Tall-Lighthouse, 2001) is available at Amazon.co.uk. Contact her at urbancat<at>talk21.com.

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