Writers on the Block

My friend Kimberly invited me to attend a free seminar about creative ways to overcome writer’s block. The seminar was on a Saturday, held in a local public library. When we first arrived only a few people were in the room which was set up for about 30 attendees. We chose chairs, in the back of course, and one woman (there’s always at least one of these) went directly to the front and chose the seat square in the middle of the front table. “Oh boy, it’s all about her,” I muttered. Kimberly nodded in agreement.

A sizzling, humid summer day in Georgia makes even air-conditioned rooms stuffy, so we just sat there gazing about when a large wasp glided to rest on the table next to a man sitting in front of us. He jumped up and shouted, “What is it?! What is it?!”

We look at each other. “It’s a wasp,” we intone together.

“Will it sting? Will it bite?”

“Yes, yes it will.”

The wasp flies off and the agitated man sits down. We share another knowing look. It’s a little too quiet in the room to talk. Maybe he should be in the Just Arrived on Earth Seminar.

The room becomes gradually populated with the various semi-normal to odd to downright eccentric folk that attend these types of things on a weekend. As the room fills and people are fanning themselves with the notepaper they brought along, in comes Wacky Writer Guy. Anyone that lives in or near a city can spot the types of people that may have just wandered in off the streets for the AC or who monopolize the meeting then stalk the presenters of such fare afterward. He had that jerky kind of amphetamine gait and his arms were flying about seemingly on their own accord. He immediately began talking loudly to Wasp Man (the only other male in the room) something about hugging children and bad mothers. Kimberly and I eyed the exit for future reference.

We sat and we sat. A distraught young librarian walked in and explained that the published author who would present the seminar should arrive any minute, but so far the librarian hadn’t heard from her. “She’s probably drunk,” I whisper to Kimberly. “You know how unreliable those damn writers are.” We snicker. Then we wait some more. One woman is becoming indignant. I lean over and suggest that we ask for our money back. She doesn’t find that humorous.

Re-enter the apologetic young librarian. She explains that the presenter is stuck in traffic and has to pick up her two toddlers from daycare. “Daycare on Saturday?” Kimberly asks under her breath. Not only that, the writer thought the seminar was on the following day, a Sunday, and would have to bring her toddlers with her to the seminar. “I’m outta here,” I tell Kimberly. In addition to all of these woes, there has been a sudden illness in the writer’s family. I lean over to Kimberly, “Man did the dog eat her seminar presentation and her grandmother die? For a writer, she’s not very original.”

Up-front lady decides to do a Judy Garland/Mickey Rooney rally round the flag act, “Who can come here tomorrow? Let’s see a show of hands.”

Hell no.

Now Wacky Writer Man is really fired up. “You tell her to get her ass down here. We’ll wait all day if that’s what it takes!” Now he’s yelling, “I want to talk about writing. Who else wants to talk about writing?” His arms are flailing and he walks menacingly toward the librarian while reaching into his pockets.

“Does he have a weapon?” Kimberly asks.

He pulls out his wallet, removes a card and throws it down on the table in front of the horrified young lady of the library. “There, what do you think about that? I’ll watch those kids! What do you think about that?”

The librarian says, “Sir this really isn’t necessary.” Now everybody is eyeing the exit. I bet up-front lady is rethinking her chair choice now.

“Time to get the heck out of here,” I say to Kimberly. She agrees.

As we climb into my Jeep, she asks, “What do you think that card said?”

“Oh, maybe Certifiably Insane; possibly Registered Child Molester.”

Actually, it was one of the better seminars I’ve attended.