Napalm Trees. The young redhead had been flattered, and why not? He was a big deal back then. The critics had called him a national treasure, a burgeoning genius. Napalm Trees was “a tour de force, a literary behemoth!”
Napalm Trees was indeed considered literary fiction, but not the kind that would turn into required reading in college. His novel was page-turning fiction meant for book clubs. It just so happened to be quite literary. What? Whitaker couldn’t help that his silver pen painted scenes so vividly that a reader might tumble into the page through his wormhole of words. He rolled his eyes at his own sarcasm.
The typist unfolded his laptop. He’d written his last book on a laptop that he’d dubbed Excalibur. The screen used to come to life with the excitement of taking on the world. When he’d set his fingers over the keys, that computer had begged for words like a stranded man in the desert desperate for water. If only a laptop could keep up with the times. Newer technology had led to Excalibur’s inevitable doom. Something about writing a hit book and making a lot of money had made Whitaker want to upgrade. If only he’d known that he was tossing his finest ally into the trash, he would have put up with its constant freezing and need to be restarted for the rest of his writing career.
As part of his regimen of procrastination, Whitaker always needed to restart his computer before words were written, something about starting fresh. As the computer rebooted, he sat there cracking his knuckles and watching the update bar. When the computer—still unworthy of a name—finally came alive with a welcome sound, he surfed his favorite sites. Anything to delay dredging up new words.
Of course, there would be no writing until he’d checked emails. He never knew what might be waiting for him, good or bad. Was he procrastinating? Yes, indeed. Still, he had several hours to write before his afternoon get-together with family.
Whitaker hadn’t gotten far in reading emails when he came across the latest communique from his agent in New York. It was the same old message: When will you have something for me to read? I can find us another publisher. Might even be able to get another advance. Don’t give up.
“Oh, good,” Whitaker said through gritted teeth. “Another advance that I will have to pay back when no story surfaces.”
If only people knew how impossible it was to put words on a page when your life depended on it. This sort of pressure from his peers was exactly what made writing now so much more difficult.
“I’m typing, dammit. I’ll have your book soon enough. Get off my back. There’s no blood left to suck.”
Breaking away from the writing business, Whitaker took time to enjoy an inappropriate email from his brother. After a final bout of laughter, he checked his social media sites. Though Napalm Trees had hit stores before the social media uprising, Whitaker had built a strong and active following over the years. Much of that certainly had to do with his often careless and unfiltered rants, but, nevertheless, at least he still had a voice. Someone had posted in his group about a possible sequel to the movie. Whitaker read the comments, amazed how many conclusions these people could make on complete hearsay. Claiming the final word, he typed I have not been made aware of a movie.
Finally, it was time to get to it. The typist closed his internet browser and opened up his latest novel in Microsoft Word. It wasn’t that he’d gone completely dry. It was just that the last ten years he’d written a series of unfinished novels. Somewhere between one page and halfway through, he’d decide that his premise sucked or that the writing was pedestrian at best, and that there was no way he’d show the world that this was his follow-up, that this was his best attempt to outdo his last one.
This new novel could be good, though. To change it up and catch his readers off guard, he’d decided to write a period piece. He wanted to explore life in the twenties in St. Pete, those days when Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe were allegedly sneaking around in their affair, and Frank Sinatra was crooning and chasing women at the marina in Tierra Verde.
Best of all, he knew this story was the right one because he was giving back to the city that had blessed him