"The Moment"

            With every long-ish story that I’ve ever written (or attempted to write), there’s always been the moment. This moment occurs a few days after I’ve started writing, when I just suddenly have all these ideas about where the story should go and I have to scramble to write them all down before I forget.

            The best way that I can describe the moment is by comparing it to losing your car keys. First, you have no clue where they are, and finding them looks like a dooming task that not even Harry Potter would take on. (Sorry, had to slip a Harry Potter reference in there.) This is the equivalent of writer’s block. While I can’t speak for all writers, or even most, I know that every time I can’t think of what to write, I immediately start to second guess my writing ability. Maybe I’ll never write again? Maybe I’ll never have another good idea? In other words, I come very close to a catatonic panic attack.

            However, this passes when I first think of an idea, and then another idea, and another idea. This is similar to when you remember where you last had your keys. They’re in the left pocket of your jean jacket! They’re in the bottom of your laundry hamper! It’s a great feeling because you finally realize that not all is lost.

            But then, you’re running to your jean jacket or your laundry hamper and your mind is racing at a hundred miles a minute and you panic. What if it’s not there anymore? What if I can’t write down all of my ideas in time and I lose them for good? Panic!!

            Then you get there, and you find the car keys and all is good again and you can breathe. You’ve written down all of your ideas so you can never forget them, and you feel good. You feel great!

            So why am I telling you all of this? Well, I just had the moment. Last week, I talked about false promises and showed you guys the newest story I’ve been working on. Well, here’s the next chunk. No false promises today!

PART 2

We pulled away from the curb and the peeling green Volkswagen coughed a cloud of black smoke out of the exhaust pipe.

            Is it supposed to do that? I asked, looking in the rearview mirror as the old lady swiped at the cloud with her arms. Grandpa Mac shifted gears and my knees slammed into the dashboard. Of course Granpa Mac is the kind of guy who only drives stick, I thought to myself.

            She’s just a bit old, that’s all. Grandpa Mac patted  the steering wheel again and I wondered if maybe he really did think that the Volkswagen was his dog.

            She? I asked.

            The car, Grandpa Mac said slowly.

            I know you meant the car, but why’s the wagon a she?

            What wagon? Grandpa Mac asked, and I groaned.

            Nevermind, I grumbled, and he stabbed the radio dial with his index finger. A man with a scratchy voice who called himself Big Al was in the middle of a lengthy analysis of the last Cleveland Indians game, and I immediately stopped listening. Out the window, I saw a sign that said: Welcome to Akron. My head hit the thick glass window with a thud trying to get a better  glimpse.

            I thought you said you lived in Cleveland, I said as the man on the radio talked about batting averages.

            What? Grandpa Mac yelled, and I turned off the radio.

            I thought you said you lived in Cleveland, I said again.

            Well, the suburbs.

            Fine, the suburbs. I thought you said you lived in the suburbs of Cleveland, not Akron slash Canton. I rolled my eyes, but Grandpa Mac was busy merging onto the highway, checking his mirrors, to notice.

            Well, flights to Akron are cheaper. I thought it’d be easier on Cal, Grandpa Mac said without looking at me, too busy trying to switch lanes. The car jerked left and Grandpa Mac’s green Volkswagen cut in front of a big Ford pick up truck, and the soccer mom driving it honked her horn. Grandpa Mac tried to whisper, but I heard him say son of a bitch mother fucker under his breath.

            I’m sure Cal wouldn’t have cared either way, I said. It was supposed to sound like a compliment to Cal, but my tone twisted in the back of my throat and I know Grandpa Mac noticed.

            I know Cal wouldn’t have cared, but I care, he said.

            You aren’t the one paying for it though. The words fell out of my mouth like rocks and I didn’t know why I was saying them. Grandpa Mac pulled at the red tie around his neck and I realized that he had dressed up for me, because Grandpa Mac was also the kind of guy who only owned one tie.

            I don’t want to argue with you, XXX. Grandpa Mac punched the radio dial again with the flat of his thumb, and it was as though we hadn’t missed a bullet point of Big Al’s Cleveland Indians analysis. I pulled my fingers through my thick, wavy hair and slumped against the window.

            We finally pulled off of the highway, and I stared at a lonely gas station that had no cars or people mulling about. This is Ohio, I thought to myself as the light turned from red to green. Grandpa Mac cut a sharp right and the tires squealed against the gravel. As we drove down an empty road through what seemed like an endless expanse of farmland, I looked down at my pants and realized that this wasn’t the kind of place where boys wore skinny jeans.

            SCREENPLAY PAGES WRITTEN: 59

            NOVEL PAGES WRITTEN: 107