Howard Roberts sat in mute silence, drumming his right hand on his desk, with pencil poised in his left. Watching a cloud of hovering smoke, stemming from his tasteless cigarette, as he waited for a thought. He needed something significant, a word, a title, a hook sentence that would expand into a paragraph, then a page and chapter, causing the characters to explode on the page into action. But so far not a word came to mind. Nothing, only the annoying rhythm of his dripping kitchen faucet. Which was joined  by the steady wine of the old outdated refrigerator, and the distracting buzzing of a circling house fly.

   "Damn, 4:00 a.m. and still not a word on paper. Eight hours without a thought. This has got to stop! A writer writes and I've been stuck for a week." He sips his cold cup of coffee, crushes his tasteless cigarette in the overcrowded ash tray, stretches, returns to his computer, makes several more feeble attempts only to stop half way down the page, and file it in the over flowing waste basket. 

   "My journalism classes have taught me that a good lead is simple and free of clutter. Do not narrate! Let the characters tell the story. Maybe if my uneventful life was more exciting I would have more things to write about." He thinks out loud.

   "I know the elements of good writing, character, conflict, conclusion, tone and presence. I just can't seem to put them together." Howard has already exhausted his dreams and nightmares in previous unfinished works that also just stopped flowing.

   "I've heard of writer's block but this is ridiculous! Three weeks and nothing has manifested itself on paper. My girl has just about given up on me because of my dedication to writing. Too much time to myself she claims, but that's what a writer does." Howard crosses the room, turned off the blank T.V. tuned the radio to his favorite jazz station headed for his unmade bed, disgusted with himself yet, still optimistic.

   "No great thoughts tonight but there's always tomorrow. I know I can write, I got A's in my journalism class for articles and essays, plus I've written several articles in the local church bulletins. But it's a lot harder without a teacher." He throws himself across the bed fully clothed, exhausted from doing nothing.

   "Maybe I'll have a nightmare or interesting dream that I can turn into a good story." Soon Howard slipped into a deep snore his only escape from writers' block

   Morning finds Howard in a positive state of mind as he sheds his wrinkled clothes shaves his three day shadow and showers. As he dressed himself promises.

   "Today I will do something to alter my humdrum, uneventful life. I will explore and document the beauty of Nature's world outside this dreary bungalow. He gulps down a quick brunch of toast and coffee, scooped up his paper and pens, he hastens out the front door determined to document the wonders of mother Nature.

   Outside the street is quiet is quiet and uneventful except for,

   "Now those oak trees lining both sides of the street, might make an interesting subject, crowded with active birds building their nests and chirping summer songs in noisy harmony." He studies the scene a moment then adds.

   "While the young males sometimes crash to the ground lock in mortal combat for mating rights. While other birds watch silently from the telephone wires, pruning their feathers and occasionally swooping down frolicking   in forming puddles caused by an oscillating sprinkler left on by an absent minded neighbor." Too trite and uninteresting he reasons. Then across the street, Howard talk's out another scenario taking place. 

   "An elderly lady bent with age, struggles up the hill with a shopping bag of groceries and slowly ambles by. Stopping momentarily to shift the heavy burden from one side to another. She reaches the corner turns right, then disappears down the busy boulevard. Interesting" he reasons but not worth writing about.

   "Maybe I'll write about this beautiful day in Pasadena. Clear skies, a slight breeze, and temperatures in the mid-seventies." But who cares about nice day in Pasadena except Pasadena residents." Howard rationalizes.

   "Maybe I'll walk to the park and document what's going on there. Kids are always a good subject to write about." Undaunted by his lack of material, Howard heads for the neighborhood park where he's sure to find something interesting.

   He walks the noisy Boulevard, and observes swirls of dust and litter kicked up by speeding cars. But nothing interesting enough to write about except,

   "I could write about the stark contrast of my tree lined street as opposed to the elimination of all trees when the Boulevard was widened and designated a commercial area. But who cares." Howard continues east a couple of blocks turns right at the traffic light and goes into the Seven Eleven Store.

   "Can I help you sir?" The suspicious Indian clerk inquires. "I just want a Pepsi, shall I get it? Or, do you want to get it for me?" An irritated Howard responds.

   "You get it sir." The clerk replied with some trepidation.  Howard paid for the soda, exiting the store he warned the clerk.    "That's why yawl got burned out, the last time because of your attitude. Ain't been here a year and condescending on me." Thoroughly pissed, Howard moves on.

   "I should write about how all these Arabs, Indians and Koreans move into the Black community and exploit and disrespect Black people. White folks won't let them in their neighborhood." Howard shrugs off the incident and goes back to the sights and sounds, hoping to find something interesting, worth writing about.

   Then Howard focuses his attention on a mail carrier struggling under the load of her mail pouch. Stepping off the curb he's nearly run over by an Oriental woman in a Mercedes making a hasty left in front of on coming traffic. Narrowly missing Howard and, an oncoming bus. The bus driver lays on his horn as Howard yells.

   "Hey, watch it you Bitch! I don't know why they let you Chinks have a driver's license. Everybody knows yawl don't have peripheral vision, that's why you can't drive a lick. "As  the errant driver continues on her way undaunted.

   Howard arrives at the park still fuming about his close encounter only to discover his favorite park table crowded with a group of boisterous teenage girls and boys, smoking a joint. The group grows silent as one of rowdies focuses on Howard.

   "What you looking at home boy? You got a problem?" Howard ignores the rowdy and continues walking to the opposite end of the park.

   "I wonder what their parents would say if they knew their kids were ditching school and harassing grown folks? It's as though  the parents had them, then left them on their own.  If I had a gun I would shoot every one of them all, disrespectful little Bastards! That would make a good vigilante story however, I'm a writer not a journalist."

   Howard composes himself as he sits on a shaded bench and table.

   "This is the perfect spot he chides." Then carefully surveys his surroundings looking for something interesting to document.

   He follows the sound of a young child laughter, squealing with delight as the young mother cautiously pushed the tiny tot in a swing. To her right an elderly couple are seated on a shady  bench admiring the baby and talking to each other.

   "That's a story worth writing about. I bet that old, couple have been through a lot together. They seem as much in love now as they probably were in their youth. I should go over and interview them. But this young generation has instilled such a fear in old people today they no longer trust anybody." This park once represented the pride of this neighborhood. Children could play in it during the day. Parents could walk in it at night." Looking around, shakes his head in disgust.

   "Look at it now, vulgar graffiti defacing this once beautiful stone work that W.P.A. workers built during the depression. Now claimed by rival gangs. I don't like it. But, I'm just one person what can I do?"

   Taking advantage of the beautiful sunshine a few young men and their dogs busied themselves throwing and receiving their Frisbees. Approaching the table are several resident pigeons demanding their tribute.

   "That's what that old couple was waiting for. They must feed the pigeons every day." Suddenly the pigeons scatter in all direction, frightened by the whop, whop blades of a police helicopter, they quickly vacate the area.

   "Somebody reported those bad ass kids, I bet you! Here come the police. Now they gonna' get a record. When you stop to think about it they really wasn't doing nothing. Except, for that rowdy loud mouth. I think the police should let them go. But it's just me, what can I do?"

   Howard felt a growing frustration inside.

   "It's already noon if something interesting don't happen soon I'm gonna' have to go some where else. Then an army mound of ants garners his attention.

   "That's it! Mother Nature! I can use my writer's creative license to create the perfect subject. Insects! He begins probing the grass, gradually working up the shrub.

   "Under foot, hidden from man's probing eyes are the creatures of the grass and shrubs carry on their daily routine undetected by man but not their predators. A camouflaged grasshopper gorges itself on the vegetation only to get swooped up by a shrieking, nest robbing, blue jay perused by a group angry sparrows. Meanwhile, on the underside of a leaf an undulating caterpillar fall victim to the marauding army of ants. Huh, this is sounding good. I'm beginning to feel It." he rationalized to himself. As he began further discovery.

   "Nestled inside a flowery shrub a large brown spider busied itself wrapping what appeared to be a juicy moth and future meal. A praying mantis stands poised to capture a resting dragon fly."

   Howard pans his surroundings and spots, a neighborhood cat stalking an unsuspecting pigeon pecking in the playground sand box.

   "The doesn't hear the large Doberman, sniffing the bushes and occasionally cocking his leg. No! This ain't working, the plot cooled off." Convinced he was wasting time Howard packed up then headed for Sid's Café a little restaurant and bar, a favorite haunt for budding artist. a few blocks away.

   "Evening Sid, it's getting hot out there."

   "Evening Howe I don't mind the heat, it's that Pasadena smog that gives my sinuses the blues. Write anything today?"

   "Meditated at the park for a while, but I didn't try to write anything. I should write about your place. Let's see I'll call it Sid's contemporary, cultural institution. Two lovely waitresses stand poised to take your order. While Sid a southern Creole holds the position of owner. How's that sound so far?"

   "That earned you a beer so far, keep on and you just might up on a Oyster loaf." Inspired, Howard continues.

   "The L shaped bar is lined with twelve chairs, while a vintage juke box is adjacent to the large window close to the entrance. The food is legendary, atmosphere friendly. So, please stop by when you're in the area, that's Sid's café."

   "That's great Howard! You really are a write" Sylvia proclaims.

   "He sure is and cute too" Sharon the other waitress adds.

   "My place inspire you Howard?" Howard nods yes.

   "then you can use that booth under the window. From today on I'll call it Howard the writer's booth. How's that?"

   "Are you serious?" Howard asks.

   "I believe in you because but you have to believe in yourself, because you as a writer can make a difference." Sid relates.

   "I haven't written anything worth while in a couple of weeks. It's called writer's block." Sid places the frosty Mug in front of Howard.

   "You do my maintainer and I'll keep you fed and put some money in your pocket. How's that sound, mister writer?

   "I got to and tell Jill, she's been sweating me about my writing and getting a job. She's gonna' be pretty happy." Halfway through the beer the clientele increased to five. A shapely young lady began dancing to 'Nasty Girls'

"Well Sid, it's time to go. Thanks again, it's time for me to go home and do some serious writing to show you tomorrow. I'll be here in the evening to show you what I wrote tonight. Confused?"

   "Alright, writer, I'll be anxious to read it." Sid promises. Between Sid's and his house Howard has a change of heart.

   "This beautiful March afternoon should be savored, since folks in other parts of the country are suffering through blizzard and snow. Santa Monica at sunset, there's a story in that."

   Inside the house Howard thumbs through his notes to see if they would trigger a creative response.

   "Nothing doing here." Howard hops in his car headed for the beach.

   "Wow, the pier's bustling with activity. Strolling lovers, fishermen, circling gulls waiting to snatch food or bait from anyone not paying them attention."

   A commercial fishing boat pulled along side the pier, as a line of weary fishermen and women exited the boat most carrying the familiar croaker sack. Their fishing poles bobbin from side to side in the evening sunset until they're out of sight.

   "One of the fishermen has a good hook up. I can see the ark of the pole, tell by the gathering spectators this is going to be a battle. Ho no, the fish broke the line! People who were just talking to each suddenly reverted back to being strangers. A perfect story for Field and Stream magazine but for me."

   Howard focuses his attention to the end of the ocean, which the sun will soon slip behind.

   "An ocean sunset, sea gulls searching out their favorite pylons. Now the city lights began to come in focus, and over there a young Vietnamese couple pushes a stroller laden with bucket, bait and fishing gear, as the young toddler trails behind, nursing her bottle and playing with her ear."

   Once again Howard is forced to stop. he has many great ideas but according to what he's been taught and read, this is trite material. Harold returns to his car. Heads north on the Harbor Freeway.

   "You know if I allowed my imagination to run away a little I could say that those derrick pumps look like monster grass hoppers feeding in the fields. It'll be good to get home I'm exhausted."

   Outside, his bungalow invisible insects begin to make their presence known. In the distance a lone mocking bird sings in the rich darkness. Howard goes inside  checks his messages.

   "Howard Roberts, This is the last straw! I can forgive you for standing me up a half dozen times. But, this time you stood up my parents, and don't tell me you forgot it's their anniversary and we were supposed to take them to dinner! I never want to see or hear from you again! I hate you!

   Howard played the tape several more times.

   "That's it! I've finally got my story I'm going to call it 'The Writer.' Talk about all the up's and down's of a lonely writer whose girl left him while somebody else believed in him. I couldn't write a story without and ending. Now I have it. Tomorrow Sid will get his story and it will be called 'The Writer.'

The End