A Day in the Life by Daniel Hawks

Writing is the hardest and most frustrating thing I do. And I can’t stop. I’m actually not a writer. Not professionally anyway. You could call it a hobby, but hobbies are generally enjoyable. This is just hard. Yet, I go on writing. At best I am a mediocre writer. My talents have never gotten me noticed. I’ve always been just good enough to get by and just good enough to believe I could someday be good. I always thought writing would be how I would leave a mark on this world. Now my days are filled with, well this…

“Ahhhh.” I groaned as my head fell to the table.
“What’s wrong daddy?” My four year old daughter was standing beside me. She is like a hobbit. She has the ability to enter a room unnoticed if she wants.
“Oh, nothing sweetie” I reply. “I just can’t find any words to write.”
“Daddy, I can give you some words” She says, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.
“Can you? Tell me a word.”
She looks straight up at me and says, “lubbydaddlydoo”.
“Wooow. That’s a great word. What does it mean?” She was always making words up.
“It means, ‘I love my Daddy’.”
“Well, that is my most favorite word ever. Let’s get ready for breakfast.”

We came down the stairs. My wife was in the kitchen making breakfast. I kissed her on the cheek.

“What are you two up to?”
Ruby answered first, “I was teaching Daddy some new words.”
“Were you?”
We sat at the table.
“How is the book coming?” Nicole asked.
“Slowly and not at all. I just don’t know where I’m going or where to start.”
“I can read what you have so far.”
“That’s just it. I have nothing.”
“I’m sure you have something dear.”
“Nope, nothing. Only jumbled words in my head. But mostly no words at all.”

Breakfast was fried eggs, toast, and fruit. As we ate, Ruby shared her dreams from the night before. Most of them were probably made up. She is a great story teller. I’m not sure where she gets it. We talked about plans for the day. On Saturdays, we would take Ruby and our dogs to play at the park. That would be later. Morning was my writing time.

After breakfast I went upstairs. My writing “office” was actually our attic. There was a loft space in the top floor of our house. It was small with a pitched ceiling; walk too far to the right or left and you would hit your head. I had a simple desk. No drawers, basically a wooden table. It was at the far end of the narrow room, under the window. On it sat my laptop, note book, a cup of pens (my mode of transportation), and a cup of coffee (my fuel). I sat down and took a deep breath. Not a sigh of relief or determination; more like when something heavy lays on you and all the air is squeezed out. I was channeling my inner Tolkien, Wells, Lewis, and Orwell to write the next great scifi/fantasy novel.

I began to write: “In a galaxy far, far away…”

That won’t work. Already been done.

I stared at the blank paper. 10 seconds pass. Now 15, 17, 18, 20, 25….35 seconds. Now a minute.

Still no words.

I stood up and began pacing the floor. This might get the creative juices flowing, I thought. As I paced my eye caught some movement out the window. It was our neighbor Steve across the street, watering his grass with a hose. He was wearing tall white socks, sneakers, a green polo, and short shorts. He looked a little suspicious to me.

I watched him. He looked around cautiously. I mirrored his action and ducked down low so he couldn’t see me. He continued watering as he backed up to the large tree in his front yard. His hand reached behind the tree to pull a leaver. A trap door opened in the tree. A car pulled up. Two men in dark suits got out of the front. One opened the back door and pulled out a young girl. Her hands were tied and mouth taped. She kicked and tried to scream. I rose up, startled at what I saw. No one was around. No one saw this but me. I had to do something.

Without thinking I jumped on the desk, opened the window, and climbed onto the roof. I slid down off the edge and grabbed the gutter. I closed my eyes, dropped onto the roof of my car and raced across the street. My momentum took me across the hood of the 2 men’s car. That’s when they noticed me.

“Let her go” I yelled.
“You don’t know what you are getting into Max” Steve warned.

The taller of the men in black came at me. I punched him, he fell. The other was right behind him. He swung. I dodged, grabbed his arm, and flipped him over my back. He didn’t move.

I walked over to Steve.
“Now hold on Max. Don’t do anything you will regret.”

I said nothing. I grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back.
“Two things are gonna happen. You are going to let her go and you are going to apologize.”
“I can’t do th…” he cried out in pain as I pushed his arm up.
“OK, OK. She can go”…

I shook my head and came out of the daze. Steve was still watering his lawn. His finger was up his nose. “Maybe I need a change of scenery”, I thought.

Downstairs I told my wife I needed to get out. I was heading to the local coffee shop. I kissed her, grabbed my keys, and left.

The coffee shop was small; five tables, a couch, and three comfortable chairs, the kind good for napping. I chose the table furthest from everyone. I started by writing down some general ideas. After 8-10 were written I stopped and read through them all. Half way through my mind began to wander. I looked up and the room transformed into a medieval English pub.

Big hairy men sat around wooden tables, talking loudly, and drinking ale. A fire was going in the large hearth in the middle of the room. The waiter brought me a mug of beer, I thanked him. Suddenly I had an accent. As my eyes scanned the large room I wondered where the bathroom was. I stood to go look for it but something bumped the table and prevented me from standing. A large sword was attached to my belt.

As I made my way across the room a group of rough looking men came in. They harassed people as they made their way to the bar. When our paths crossed the leader shoved me into a table.

“You are walkin’ in my path” he said.

Something clicked inside me. I was filled with courage and the urge to fight. This was all new to me. I’ve never been the fighting type. I drew my sword and stuck down the first challenger. Two more came, both fell. The leader was left. He cowered down in fear, looking at his fallen posse…

The waitress startled me back to reality when she set my coffee on the table. My frustration grew. There was no way for me to get this novel started if I couldn’t even focus for 20 minutes. My mind kept wandering to these useless day dreams. I’m sure Hemingway never had this problem. Surely he could sit down and focus on the task at hand. Others who could focus their imagination and creativity, why couldn’t I? I figured the creative gene had skipped me. I read somewhere once that everyone was creative. I found that hard to believe sitting in the coffee shop.

Maybe I just needed some inspiration; something to spark my creativity, if I had any. There were people all around. Out the window cars were driving by, people were on the street, some were sitting at tables; talking, laughing, living. I wondered about them. Did they have stories worth telling?

I saw a young man sitting across the coffee shop. He was tall and handsome, with dark hair and a strong face. He seemed to be working on something important, intent and focused on his computer. There was depth in his eyes. Surely he had a story to tell. He looked brave and honorable. Although he was young maybe he had been hurt. Behind that strong exterior could’ve been a soft heart. He would be my hero. He would fly through space or ride across the English country side. The place didn’t matter. What mattered was this character, this man, this person. I imagined all he would do and be. And I began to write.