Where Are the Words?

Why can’t Kristen write? Why can’t she finish a book?

The words have either escaped her, or they are well hidden. Punctuation, the same.

Monday morning, some adverbs were rinsed down the drain when she scraped leftover egg yolk from her plate. They were adverbs, but still. Used sparingly in a story, they work well.

On Wednesday, a half a dozen adjectives were lost in a sock. Where did they go? Down the black hole in the dryer with who knows how many other socks and adjectives. No more detective with the tanned body; the muscular biceps, the firm gluteous maximus. He was her favorite character in a short story she’d started. And shy Suzette lost her lover.

And the cozy mystery she started to read on Saturday. She couldn’t finish it. All the descriptions of the desserts made her drool. And there went all the commas in her story. Saliva all over her pillow. (She was reading in bed.) Really, there were too many commas anyway, but that’s beside the point, right?

Kristen started reading an historical novel Thursday morning with her coffee and Danish. But, she became uncomfortable in the main character’s corset. (Kristen’s imagination is extreme. She really places herself in the story.) Now she knows when she writes her own novel, to set it in a different time. Maybe in the late 1960s? Mini skirts are very freeing, and all those vivid designs and colors. (If they don’t get lost also.)

That same Thursday, in the afternoon, she changed from her orange stilettos to her much more comfy red sneakers. When she took off the heels, the two semicolons, (one in each shoe,) jumped out and high tailed it down the hall, and hopped into her ficas tree. She can’t find them in the foliage. She never knew semicolons wear camo.

Kristen’s two favorite character names, Sylvia and Mortimer rebelled. Not enough love scenes for them in her novella. Secondary characters, Stephanie and Dillon get way more. How is that fair? What’s up with that? They absconded to the garden somewhere. Are they in the lupine? Maybe in the azaleas? Kristen’s too lazy to look. She’ll just have to come up with other names. Perhaps Gertrude and Gavin. Or could Gs be missing in action too? They only want roles in sci-fi?

Friday, Kristen put out a casting call for a sexy plumber type, (what that is, exactly, she’s not sure. She doesn’t want to be sexist.) All she asks is that they don’t show their cracks when they bend over to look under the sink. Alas, no one showed up. Her imagination was bereft. Maybe the hopefuls heard she had cabbage, beet, and broccoli salad for lunch?

One of Kristen’s favorite words is eviscerate. She found it in her chocolate stash on Tuesday. But what should she eviscerate in her poem? It’s a love sonnet. What is eviscerated in a love poem? That’s just a depressing thought.

There are many reasons why Kristen is unable to find the words, for either reading or writing. Or are they merely excuses? Likely the latter.

Maybe the words are in a little cabin on the coast, or a little motel in the sticks? Maybe she just needs to rent a room. Somewhere quiet, out of the way. Maybe take her vintage typewriter that’s missing three letters. Well, they’re not missing, just worn off, faded. Maybe that’s a little progress? Just faded, not gone?  Kristen’s hopeful.

There’s a little motel named Bates in a town called Waterville down the coast a piece. Bates. This must mean something. She’ll lock the bathroom door when she takes a shower. Maybe put a chair under the knob. Kristen rents room 5 for two days and nights. Fifty dollars a night. Cash only. According to the receptionist, the room is decorated in burnt umber and avocado green. She thinks maybe this atmosphere will spur her imagination. She’ll set her story in 1975. She’ll wear her polyester blouse, bell bottom jeans, part her hair in the middle. And she won’t forget two packs of Marlboros and a lot of Boone’s Farm Wild Irish Rose. Do they still make Wild Irish Rose?  If not, some cheap whisky. She’ll rent a Gran Torino if she can find one, or a 70s VW Beetle. Wish Kristen luck!