The Gift

I had just finished breakfast and was enjoying my second cup of coffee, or was it my third? My wife looked at me with that special smile.

“Well, Mr. author what’s the next book about?” She set down, crossed from me and stirred sugar into her coffee. A Gest for Life was a year in the past. A lifetime in the publishing industry. She deserved an honest answer.

“I don’t have a clue.” I said, my face reddening. She laughed. “That’s what I thought. Don’t worry, it will come.”

I finished my coffee and wandered around the house, getting in my wife’s way. I worked my way outdoors, then set at the desk in my office.

I turned on my computer. Bringing up a blank page, I stared at it. I typed on the screen. Mary had a little lamb. It sure was an ugly little sucker. No help there.

So I dusted the office, straightened the books, and cleaned the windows. I sat back down at the desk. I needed to come up with an idea. One that would carry me and my reader for at least 60,000 words, or hopefully more. I ask myself the age-old question ‘what if?’ Nothing.

At 12 I staggered into the house. My wife had lunch at the table. Chile soup. She’s really good at that. I always enjoy her Chile soup.

“No pay dirt.” She said.

I shook my head. “Not even a nibble.”

Now my wife is very patient. She knows my writing is like a rock wall. If you hammer at it long enough, it will fall.

“Look, Hunter, we’ve been here before. It’ll pass.” She said, smiling.

“Yes. I’m sure it will.”

So, after two bowls of the best chili in the world, I returned to my office determined to find the next great idea. I wrote gibberish for the next hour. Then it hit. A man is in the same shape as I. He can’t find anything to write. All his ideas seem dull and uninteresting. He hears a knock at the door of his office. He rises from his desk to find an angel. Only he doesn’t know it’s an angel. He looks like a hobo with ragged clothes. The angel is begging for food. The writer takes him to a restaurant and buys him a meal. But before he does, he gives the hobo clothing out of his own closet. Then he opens his wallet and gives him $50.00. They return to his office. The writer glances at his screen, seeing a synopsis for a new book. He looks back at the hobo but all he sees is a pile of clothes with the fifty laying on top. Then he realizes he’s received a great gift. He types. The novel takes shape. He entitles it The Gift.

I began to write. The words flowed from my fingertips. My wife appeared at the door to my office. Quietly she entered, set down and waited for me to finish. When I finally looked up, I had written three pages. She smiled. “There it is.” She said with conviction. I smiled at her with relief. We had overcome writer’s block.