A Writer's Hero Journey...Part 2
I’m in my Hubsville office which I’d appropriated a few weeks back. The space was not without its limitations…chiefly…a lingering smell of past culinary atrocities. Additionally, the ceiling is covered by a Combat Air Patrol comprised of relentless fruit-fly clusters. A fluorescent light flickers annoyingly.
I’m reviewing my notes. I believe I have my arms fairly well wrapped around this “Hero Journey” thing. My extensive documentary evidence lies before me. The journey’s to be three fold:
With a bunch of cool shit happening in each section.
I’m particularly excited about the ‘Initiation’ section. I had read that after “some travail” stuff…it was supposed to include; ‘Meeting a Goddess’, ‘Woman as Temptress’, and something called the ‘Ultimate Boon’…I could only imagine…
I’m currently fretting the departure phase like the worry that you might not have grabbed everything before shutting the door on the motel key sitting on the cheap press-board table.
Two elements are missing. According to my reading…I need a catalyst…something to motivate me…something sinister…something pushing that will send me on this epic journey.
I’m also missing my supernatural/spiritual advisor. This is the literary vehicle on which I will move through the story. On a personal note, I’m also hoping for the inclusion of a final member of our brave little party. An invitation has been extended and accepted. They had still not shown. There were legal issues.
I had retained the services of an attorney on a previous legal clash over a grammar-related offence. He still had $87.35 in retainer fees which I hoped to tap for these legal questions. There were questions of copyright and trademark issues. His phone’s disconnected.
A Spiteful Creative Voice…
“I told you not to hire him,” Creative Voice comments snidely. He’s still pissed off by the nature of this story. He doesn’t like being confined within the formulaic structure of a “hero’s journey” …he feels it stymies his process…whatever…
He’s dressed in an outlandish costume for our adventure. His garb would best be described as a cross between Robin Hood (down to the tights) and a sexy Star Wars Storm Trooper (yeah…weird). This ensemble is rounded out with a fanny pack, tazer, and curled little elf shoes.
He stands by the pencil sharpener that hangs on the wall. He’s methodically sawing through his second box of (#2) graphite. After each pencil is rendered as sharp as a Samurai sword…it’s put in the fanny pack.
The weed Faye had brought over and our pipe were already in the pack.
“You do realize that the fanny-pack makes you look gay as fuck, right? And your tights are being attacked by your muffin-top…” I shoot back. “Oh…and those tights make you look gay as fuck too. What’s going on with this ‘catalyst’ thing we need?”
To his credit, Creative Voice is a professional. In an over-the-top display of material wealth, he pulls out two new post-it-note pads from his fanny pack. He looks over at me smugly. His unwillingness to share is a source of contention.
“Hmm…” he sorts through his notes. “Oh yes…here it is…” He clears his throat theatrically…
“Hey Thomas…did you notice ’sinister’ type-guys hanging out in the parking lot? Three of them?” Creative Voice asks worriedly.
The third member of our party, Internal CD player, switches on…sinister 1940s movie music…we all mentally congratulate him on his choice…
He’s sitting on the couch with the fourth member of our valiant little troupe…my dog Truman. Truman currently has his face buried deep within his crotch (as only a dog can do) while making sounds that suggest he was attempting to single-handily bring back sexy… Internal CD player switches back to Justin Timberlake…
“Why no…no I did not,” I reply to Creative Voice’s question. “What, prey-tell, did they look like?”
“Um…like sinister type guys…” Creative Voice trails off… “Oh…you know those Hubbers that haven’t posted a profile picture yet…?”
“You mean the gray silhouetted guy with the fedora hat?” I asked.
“Yeah. They looked like that. Three of them.”
I cross ‘catalyst’ off my list…Creative Voice goes back to sharpening pencils…Truman continues his personal ministrations…while Internal CD player croons a painfully high (pick any one of them) Justin Timberlake note…
The office door flies open…
“What the fuck Thomas? I have to get to Burning Man!!”
Honestly. I’m as surprised as anyone.
Faye stands in my doorway looking fabulous. And furious.
Creative Voice quickly faces towards the wall…
Truman pulls his head out of his own crotch, bounds off the couch, and stuffs his face in Faye’s crotch.
Internal CD player…swirl, swirl, swirl… (he always swirls a lot when Faye’s around) …swirl, swirl…click…The Commodores…’Brick House’.
Internal CD player was on his game this day.
I hurry around my desk and come to Faye’s aid by trying to pull the 120-pound slobbering dog from her most private and tender of places.
Truman was on Faye’s game this day.
“I swear to God Faye…I know you have to go…?” We both stop and look over at Creative Voice. It’s obvious he’s listening. His back is to us…straight as a board. His neck is craned while his ear remains cocked in our direction…
Faye sidles up to me. Her head leans in towards me with a glorious strand of her dark red curly hair twirling around her finger. Her figure strains against what little fabric Creative Voice has afforded her sexy body by the Burning-man outfit. All this is perched upon 6-inch stiletto heels. Wow.
Creative Voice was on his game this day.
I briefly consider assigning her glorious mane of, Medusa –stylized, hair as an individual character (it’s that impressive). I don’t because I doubt my abilities as a writer to manage the extra dialogue.
“What’s he doing here?” Faye says loudly from the side of her mouth into my ear. She doesn’t care for Creative Voice. “He’s creepy, Thomas. And he acts dumb.” Faye can be brutally honest when she’s annoyed.
It’s painful to watch. Creative Voice’s shoulders slump. His tights sag another inch against the metaphorical assault of Faye’s derision and continued muffin-top attack.
He begins grinding away faster at the sharpener as he relentlessly sends the unfortunate Ticonderoga to its ultimate destiny as a miniature-golf pencil.
“Well…he has to be here--for the journey! Me, Truman, and Internal CD player also! And golly Faye…I think you have to be part of this as well…as my Supernatural/Spiritual guide…” I trail off…attempting to seem earnest while pretending to ignore her heaving breasts…
“Golly?” She asks drily.
“What the fuck Thomas? I have to get to Burning Man!!” She repeats while pulling on her tresses and stamping her foot.
“I know Faye…I know…but I have it planned out…I’m going to do the story in parts…write it fast…you can bail out at any of the parts…as soon as you need to. I swear. Pleeeease….”
Faye looks down at the current word count and frowns…
“Thomas…you are already on 3,000 words and we are not even out of the office yet. You never write fast.” Faye states.
I couldn’t deny it. Creative Voice does tend to parallel park his way into most sentences. I cast about for the best possible argument…
Faye passes a dubious eye across the research documentation spread across my desk.
“You are basing this huge important journey of yours on a single Wikipedia article?” She asks incredulously. “That’s dumb, Thomas. You know…anyone can change this information whenever they want, right?” She bows to the inevitable. I need her help.
“We have to leave now and keep him away from me.” She says indicating Creative Voice.
“Of course…of course!” I thank her profusely, “Would you like to have…you know…like a cool kick-ass superhero name for this adventure?” It’s the least I could do.
“Faye IS a cool kick-ass superhero name.” She informs me.
“True, that.” I replied.
We prepare to leave as a strong party of five brave and stalwart souls…
Departure from the Office…
We’re leaving without the final member that I’d hoped for and this has me worried. Our chances of success are already so slim.
We leave in single file…Faye in the lead (balancing precariously upon her 6-inch heels)…I follow (watching her calf muscles as she balances precariously upon her 6-inch heels)…Internal CD player (continuously humming ‘Brick House’ as musical accompaniment to Faye walking precariously upon her 6-inch heels)…Truman (ignoring her 6-inch heels in favor of sniffing her butt which makes her walking…just that much more…precarious)…and Creative Voice (wishing he had a pair of 6-inch precarious heels?) brings up the rear…
As soon as we clear the doorway…Truman barks, as only a Great Pyrenees can, before galloping down the hallway. He stops at a far away hall intersection and looks back at us with his tongue lolling out…pees on the wall…and continues running until he disappears…Woof-Woof…
“What the fuck, Truman!?” Both I and Creative Voice cry out…
Internal CD player… (click, click)…”Theme song to Old Yeller!”
“Guys…guys…he’s a dog. He’ll come back,” Faye tries to comfort us.
Creative Voice and myself attempt to ’man up’ but internal CD player proves inconsolable. Truman and he are close.
“Hey,” says Faye in an attempt to keep us centered, “When I was walking over here…I thought I was being followed by three…oh…I don’t know…sinister-type guys…”
I exchange a knowing look with Creative Voice. The look is pregnant with significance that is all out of proportion to the news…after all…we had just invented the three sinister-type guys about forty minutes earlier…
“Where they wearing fedoras?” I ask Faye in a low voice.
“Yes.” She whispers, “Who are they?”
“We’re not sure.” I reply, unwilling to admit to our earlier lack of creativity on the matter. “But we should move out…”
We move on as a strong party of four brave and stalwart souls…
The shadow that looms on the wall takes our little group by surprise…normally I would employ Internal CD player to set the mood for the reader…a way to warn of danger…alas…as Internal CD player does…when he’s worried…he’s only playing elevator music…
Creative Voice shrieks like a nine-year old girl…Faye grabs my arm and presses up tight against me. Nice.
The Shadow moves towards us…
[Buy clean underwear]
(End Part 2)