messed up or something, not like a real girl, so that proves it. You are too imaginary, and I don’t need you.
But I need you, Melissa. I need you to be my friend. That’s why I gave you my beautiful paperweight. That’s real, isn’t it?
Yeah.
There’s another gift I have for you, if you’ll be nice to me.
Show me.
Here, Melissa. Do you like it?
Wow, that is neat! It’s not junky plastic or anything. And it’s for me?
Yes, Melissa, but you have to give me something first.
I thought so. Don’t you know that’s not the way you’re supposed to act? That’s being selfish. You’re supposed to give somebody something just because you want to and you shouldn’t ask for something back.
Isn’t it lovely, Melissa? Don’t you want it?
Yeah. So what do I give you this time? If you want another hair, I guess you can have it.
Blood, Melissa, one tiny drop of your blood.
Blood? Lisette, you’re not just imaginary, you’re crazy! What do you think you are, Dracula?
Please, Melissa, please.
I had to go to the doctor last year for a blood test, you silly dope, and it really hurt. It made me cry.
It won’t hurt, Melissa.
Do you promise?
I promise.
Cross your heart and hope to…
I said I promise, Melissa.
Okay, okay, if it won’t hurt. But I have to stick my thumb with a needle like at the doctor’s, and I don’t have a needle.
You’ll think of something, Melissa.
Okay…yeah, my Smurf button. There’s a pin on the back. I can use that, I guess, but it better not hurt or you won’t be my friend anymore.
Please, Melissa.
Okay, okay.
Do it, Melissa.
I don’t know…
Do it now!
Ow! Oh, it hurts, it does so hurt! It hurts bad. You’re nasty! You lied to me, Lisette. You told a lie!
— | — | —
Nine
Sonofabitch. Son-of-a-bitch!
What happened? What had gone wrong? He’d been blazing through the manuscript, creativity racing on automatic pilot so that he hadn’t even had to think to transform vision into words.
Then forget it! After countless attempts, page 79 of his novel was pure shit. He yanked the paper out of the Underwood, wadded and tossed. Two points, right in the wastebasket, a sure sign that was where it belonged.
Warren leaned back, shoulders tight, the nape of his neck on fire with tension. His reading glasses had slipped to the tip of his nose. He took them off and laid them on the desk.
So the novel wasn’t working right now, but, well, that happened. He’d been flying on the proverbial wings of inspiration, but inspiration had flapped off—meaning he had a writing problem—but that was all. Problems had solutions. So, Warren, engage the brain, think out the problem and find a solution.
Brandon Holloway Mitchell, the novel’s protagonist, the civilized man of A Civilized Man, has just been told by his wife, Claire, that she is having an affair with Darwin Leaf, Mitchell’s colleague at the university.
Question: What does Brandon Holloway Mitchell do now?
Approach it rationally, objectively.
What did you do when you found out Vicki was getting it on with David Greenfield?
Remember Warren?
Christ was there ever a day when he did not remember?
Hell, time to call it quits for this session. It was nearly one in the morning and he’d been working and getting nowhere since nine.
It was time for a drink.
On his way down to the basement rec room, he carried on a silent conversation with himself
(Say, when you went out for supper, Vicki’s pay day celebration treat, didn’t you have two cocktails before and a Heineken with your meal? Mathematically speaking, Professor, two plus one equal three—and you’re watching it, aren’t you, keeping it to three—and-no-more-than-three? Right, but that was yesterday. It’s now past midnight, a brand new day.)
At the bar, he put three fingers of Johnny Walker into a highball glass and added two ice cubes.
He sipped. Excellent, he decided, 12-year-old, peat-flavored ambrosia.
Another taste. Very good, very
But I need you, Melissa. I need you to be my friend. That’s why I gave you my beautiful paperweight. That’s real, isn’t it?
Yeah.
There’s another gift I have for you, if you’ll be nice to me.
Show me.
Here, Melissa. Do you like it?
Wow, that is neat! It’s not junky plastic or anything. And it’s for me?
Yes, Melissa, but you have to give me something first.
I thought so. Don’t you know that’s not the way you’re supposed to act? That’s being selfish. You’re supposed to give somebody something just because you want to and you shouldn’t ask for something back.
Isn’t it lovely, Melissa? Don’t you want it?
Yeah. So what do I give you this time? If you want another hair, I guess you can have it.
Blood, Melissa, one tiny drop of your blood.
Blood? Lisette, you’re not just imaginary, you’re crazy! What do you think you are, Dracula?
Please, Melissa, please.
I had to go to the doctor last year for a blood test, you silly dope, and it really hurt. It made me cry.
It won’t hurt, Melissa.
Do you promise?
I promise.
Cross your heart and hope to…
I said I promise, Melissa.
Okay, okay, if it won’t hurt. But I have to stick my thumb with a needle like at the doctor’s, and I don’t have a needle.
You’ll think of something, Melissa.
Okay…yeah, my Smurf button. There’s a pin on the back. I can use that, I guess, but it better not hurt or you won’t be my friend anymore.
Please, Melissa.
Okay, okay.
Do it, Melissa.
I don’t know…
Do it now!
Ow! Oh, it hurts, it does so hurt! It hurts bad. You’re nasty! You lied to me, Lisette. You told a lie!
— | — | —
Nine
Sonofabitch. Son-of-a-bitch!
What happened? What had gone wrong? He’d been blazing through the manuscript, creativity racing on automatic pilot so that he hadn’t even had to think to transform vision into words.
Then forget it! After countless attempts, page 79 of his novel was pure shit. He yanked the paper out of the Underwood, wadded and tossed. Two points, right in the wastebasket, a sure sign that was where it belonged.
Warren leaned back, shoulders tight, the nape of his neck on fire with tension. His reading glasses had slipped to the tip of his nose. He took them off and laid them on the desk.
So the novel wasn’t working right now, but, well, that happened. He’d been flying on the proverbial wings of inspiration, but inspiration had flapped off—meaning he had a writing problem—but that was all. Problems had solutions. So, Warren, engage the brain, think out the problem and find a solution.
Brandon Holloway Mitchell, the novel’s protagonist, the civilized man of A Civilized Man, has just been told by his wife, Claire, that she is having an affair with Darwin Leaf, Mitchell’s colleague at the university.
Question: What does Brandon Holloway Mitchell do now?
Approach it rationally, objectively.
What did you do when you found out Vicki was getting it on with David Greenfield?
Remember Warren?
Christ was there ever a day when he did not remember?
Hell, time to call it quits for this session. It was nearly one in the morning and he’d been working and getting nowhere since nine.
It was time for a drink.
On his way down to the basement rec room, he carried on a silent conversation with himself
(Say, when you went out for supper, Vicki’s pay day celebration treat, didn’t you have two cocktails before and a Heineken with your meal? Mathematically speaking, Professor, two plus one equal three—and you’re watching it, aren’t you, keeping it to three—and-no-more-than-three? Right, but that was yesterday. It’s now past midnight, a brand new day.)
At the bar, he put three fingers of Johnny Walker into a highball glass and added two ice cubes.
He sipped. Excellent, he decided, 12-year-old, peat-flavored ambrosia.
Another taste. Very good, very
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