The Writer and The Snowman Part 2

How you doing, folks? Welcome to The Rider and the Snowman. So I hope you have an adult beverage. This is storytime for mums and dads. So go get your adult beverage, settle in, and we are up for chapter 3 and 4 of The Rider and the Snowman. So you ready? You settled? Here we go. The Writer. Blank paper. He'd been sitting now for days, brooding, staring, sleeping, blubbering, wandering, waiting, wishing, hoping, yelling, screaming, Growling, fuming despondently. A billion emails a day, he muttered as he looked at her photo on the desk. These idiots. Formulated opinions researched and recorded at the speed of thought. No depth, no quest, no reason outside of the desire to add their shallow musing to the white noise of a mind-numbing and dumber generation. Wikipedia is not the fountain of all truth. Morons. Have all the great words been written, all the grand stories told? He sullenly asked her. The ever-increasing mound of dirty dishes seemed to spill out of the sink in an attempt to march to their freedom across every horizontal surface in this little cabin in the woods, like some sort of Dean Koontz version of The Sorcerer's Apprentice. Cabin in the bloody woods. Tree-hugging lame-arse bullshit. Whose bright idea was this? Probably a mother's. Through the window, the writer noticed the snowman he'd built relentlessly staring back at him. Fuck off, Frosty, he muttered as he slid his feet onto his slippers and shuffled over the eternal stretch of worn rug to the fireplace that was all the fucking way over there. By the fireplace sat the basket of goodies that the publisher had arranged to have delivered on the first day he had arrived. The envelope was the only thing he'd opened, and the handmade card perched on the mantel amongst an array of meaningless odds and ends left by previous occupants. He picked it up and traced his finger around the hand-painted daffodil, marveling at how much it looked like the one he had carried everywhere with him these last few years. The only difference was the addition of I love you, PB, and a faded outline of a bright red lipstick kiss. Opening it, he read the words one more time. I know it's hard, and thank you for trying. You need this time to get away and find your voice again. We both love you very much. Get away? Find your voice again? Doubling over, he screamed, what does that even mean? Unfortunately, this very loud display of emotion happened right over the top of a bulging ashtray of cigar stubs and pipe droppings. The consequence was immediate, and no amount of running around, worrying his hair, or pulling his ears, or saying, oh bother, was going to stop the karatoka-like cigar ash cloud from descending on the only clear, clean chair in the cabin, which also happened to be occupied by Mr. Joyce at this time. Spitefully, the writer eyed Mr. Joyce as he silently shook himself and disinterestedly headed off in search of the least soiled article of clothing to continue his nap. Bloody cat, he muttered as he dusted off the front of his last cleanish t-shirt If a 3-day-old soy sauce-stained Foo Fighters shirt could be called clean— and set off in search of his pipe and tobacco, repeatedly muttering, why me? Followed by his other well-rehearsed mantra of, what is the point of it all? Eggs Hemingway. After about an hour, the writer returned to the lounge room clutching the stem of his pipe, fearful that it would run off and hide someplace more obscure than the spoon drawer next time. Approving of his timing, Mr. Joyce stretched, yawned, and adjusted his whisker, all under the disbelieving gaze of the writer. How could Mr. Joyce so effortlessly ignore me? The writer wondered to himself. Having prepared himself for his afternoon Mr. Joyce strutted purposely to the back door with a single protracted meow and commanded that it be opened. As he watched him go, the writer said, you are utterly heartless. You show nothing but disregard for my struggle. Do you know what is at stake here? If I don't come up with something they like, I am doomed. A failure. Cast aside, ruined. I will literally become like those books on the discounted table in some, some secondhand bookstore. As if in response, Mr. Joy meowed one more time in summons and padded down the hallway to wait insistently at the back door. With a loud sigh, residing to the demands of His Royal Highness, the writer headed to his bedroom and then the bathroom in search of his winter long johns. He eventually found them in the kitchen under 2 empty pizza boxes he couldn't remember ordering and a drained bottle of cheap whiskey that probably accounted for: 1, why he couldn't remember ordering or eating the pizzas; 2, Wiley's headache and his increasingly dim view of, well, everything. As he hopped from one leg to another trying to pull his pants on, he caught his painful big toe on the material. Cussing loudly, he promised no one in particular that he wouldn't kick the deck rail or anything else ever again. Passing the full-length mirror in the hallway, he said in Mr. Joyce's general direction, although not for his exclusive attention, because that would have been a waste of time, I feel and look more like Cousin Bloody Eddie in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation than Ernest Hemingway in A Moveable Feast. I know Hemingway experienced writer's block, but, but I wonder how he kept eggs out of his beard. Pipe in hand, he followed Mr. Joyce into the cold, knowing full well he was about to have a miserable time, and he just needed to get it over with so he could come back inside and make one more shitty coffee. The Reason. Swaying slightly on the porch swing, the writer watched the old Black Forest Cuckoo clock methodically go through its paces. He decided he hated that thing as well. It just hung there, tick-tocking towards its hourly destiny. It never rushed. It never stalled. It never wondered what its purpose was or what the next bloody book was supposed to be about. In 2 and a half minutes, it was going to send that stupid little bird out and it would make that stupid little sound. And shatter the only peaceful part of the writer's perfectly horrible morning, day, year, or life. While rubbing his aching foot, he prayed silent prayers calling for the untimely death and destruction of the offending timepiece. He was interrupted by a seemingly very small and very inconsequential thing that some 3 years later, halfway through a TED Talk in front of 2,000 people on a Thursday, He would realize was the event that propelled him from national to international stage as an author. The audience knew nothing of this at the time. They just wondered why he seemed to lose his place and then randomly blurt out, I'll be buggered, followed by, I'm so sorry, Mr. Joyce, I should have been nicer, before continuing to discuss how I overcame writer's block through reconnecting with nature. Mr. Joyce, however, was not concerned with the reaction of any TED Talk audience, now or in 3 years' time, as he was occupied with far more important matters like how to get from here to there without getting his paws wet. As he was perched on the porch railing staring out over his domain, he contemplated a snow-laden branch about 2 feet away. Mr. Joyce decided that it did indeed look stable enough and And that if he was to jump on it, it would hold his weight. He could then proceed to gracefully shimmy down the trunk to inspect the garden gnomes without having to tiptoe through the snow. It all happened in slow motion at the speed of cat. The rider was turning preemptively to deliver the morning tirade at the cuckoo clock as Mr. Joyce launched himself from the railing to the limb. The extra weight took the branch down at just enough of an angle so that the snow moved ever so slowly. Momentarily, Mr. Joyce appeared to do something he rarely did, which was reconsider the wisdom of his decision. Once the branch stopped bottoming, he proceeded with unruffled calm in the direction of the trunk. In his telling of the tale, Mr. Joyce clearly and emphatically states That all that happened next was he planned and had discussed with Bernard the night before, and that at no point does he look like a drunken college student on a treadmill in a YouTube video. From where the rider sat, it looked spectacular. Mr. Joyce, feeling his footing start to move, was running for all 9 of his lives when gravity kicked in. His little black paws were pumping at full leopard speed when the branch, finding release from its icy burden, Hit him in the belly, catapulting him in a perfect arc that resulted with him flying straight into Frosty's head, knocking it on the ground and leaving him perched on what was now its headless shoulders. Not, not one to be caught off guard, Mr. Joyce composed himself, circled once and settled down to lick his paws, only to poise and look in disdain at the owner of the noise coming from the deck, as if to say, what are you laughing at? Of course I planned it. On the porch deck, the writer stared on in slack-jawed disbelief, the only sound being the clamour of a pipe and a low, you have got to be shitting me, followed by uncontrollable howling and laughing. Initially, the sound startled him. It had been a long time since he'd laughed. And then, with a sense of relief, he found himself giving into it, enjoying it, slouching into it like one does into their favourite About 2 minutes into rolling around the deck, he wiped the tears from his eyes just long enough to check on Mr. Joyce before falling back on the deck, childishly shrieking. As he slowly recovered his composure, the writer knew there was only one appropriate way to respond to the spectacle. He stripped butt naked and launched a flying rugby tackle in the direction of Mr. Joyce and Frosty. As he lay there face first in the snow, he became aware of 3 things. 1, he had missed Frosty altogether. He hadn't even made it halfway. 2, he could feel his testicles recede into his body. No, seriously, he could. It was, it was otherworldly. And 3, Mr. Joyce's small feet stepping over his butt as he headed to the deck, completely dry. As he slowly rolled over and sat up, he was struck by how beautiful the day was. Mr. Joyce, on the other hand, sat at the back door impatiently waiting for his doorman. The furless one, for some reason, had looked in his direction and started rolling around in the snow again, bellowing and laughing and crying ridiculously. Mr. Joyce thought and went back to straightening his whiskers. Writers. Clean canvas. He had risen early the next day. 9 AM. Well, that was early compared to the years of stumbling out of bed between 11 and 2, and after going to bed between 3 and 6, and decided that he would do something different. Take a walk. Later that afternoon, he waved goodbye as Burt from Ethel and Burt's Country Diner pulled out of the driveway. He reached down, trying to stretch his back and touch his toes, sighing to himself as he grunted to get past his knees. Maybe next time I decide to break my exercise drought, I won't do it with a 5-mile walk to lunch, he said to himself as he hobbled inside to pour a whiskey and run a bath, in that order. Sitting in the now tepid bath, cigar smoked to the nub, the writer felt he was starting to heat up from the inside. He pondered the events that had led up to the day. When all of this had started, it had been simple. Clean, pure, fun, and funny. The last book launched him. They said he came from nowhere, a nobody who was now an overnight success. They said he was the greatest, the best, the freshest, the newest, blah, blah, blah. After the accident happened, they stopped calling, caring, or even remembering. The bastards just moved on and told him that for the good of his art, he should do the same. They couldn't possibly understand that she had been his art. As he climbed out from the bath, towel in hand, he recalled their first meeting. Before it all, he hadn't cared what others thought. In the beginning, he never wrote for money or fame. None of that had been important. He had started to write because he needed to put his voice on paper, to share those ideas and pictures with With anyone who would hear them and see them. Moving to the kitchen, tired but invigorated, he noticed Mr. Joyce turning endless circles on his chair. He realised he had more in common with that cat than he did with the stable of writers at the big publishing houses, who seemed more committed to prostituting their gifts than writing with passion and purpose. Whereas Mr. Joyce ran, jumped, played, and embraced All of life, its risks and rewards, for an audience of one. That is why he always landed on his feet, because they were his feet. The following day, after letting Mr. Joyce back in— that cat sure is regular— he gave himself completely to the task at hand. And over the next 8 hours, order returned to the cabin and his mind as he tamed pile after pile of dirty dishes, and unwashed clothes, sifting through the emotions and events that led to this point, stopping sometimes to sigh, sometimes to cry, but each time feeling somehow cleaner. As he vacuumed the rug and swept the floor, the writer realized that he couldn't think any clearer today than he did yesterday. But that wasn't important. What was important is he could feel clearer, and that, he realized, had been what he had been missing. He stood, looked out over the woods, seeing them as if for the very first time— fresh and full of possibilities, no longer stifling and restrictive. Gazing casually out at Frosty, he laughed. He couldn't remember putting a smile on his face, but he was glad that he did. Fresh coffee in hand, the writer looked down at the pad, and for the first time in years, The paper didn't scream at him to perform. Instead, he saw a blank canvas inviting him to create, to tell a story, because that was his thing, he realized, he'd been born to do. As he settled into his chair, Mr. Joyce rubbed against his leg and purred victoriously. Picking him up and scratching his little cat spot between his ears, he looked at the woman in the picture. Yet muttered to the cat, he said, how about we write her a chapter? Then you and I have a little nap after lunch. Picking up a photo, he tenderly kissed it, saying, I miss you, baby. I love you. It might take me a little while, but I'm going to be okay now. I promise. So there you go. That's chapter 3. We've got one more chapter to go. Tomorrow, chapter 4, The Publisher, will be here at the same bat time on the same bat channel. So it's my latest book. I've never written a short story before, so I thought I'd give it a go. The Rider and the Snowman. If you didn't have a chance to listen to part 1, have a look at last night's one. I posted it there on Instagram. And tomorrow, I look forward to seeing you again here. The Publisher. Don't miss it. It's awesome. Cheerio.