Writing

Not long ago, I found myself naked and on my back in the cardiac catheterization lab of a large hospital. What's wrong with the previous sentence are the words "in the cardiac catheterization lab of a large hospital", as I was assuming a familiar position in order to undergo a somewhat less familiar (and much less desirable) procedure. It had been four years since the last stents were placed within the plaque-blocked arteries of my heart but, due to the progression of an inherited heart disease called artherosclerosis, I was back for another round. It's really not that bad of an ordeal. First, you are stripped and your pubic hair is shaved off. This is not an entirely new concept for me, although in the hospital, they tend to only shave one half of your pubic area (the area where they'll be working) so I've found it helpful to ask them to just do the whole thing so it appears uniform, and thus, more pleasing to the eye. They then wheel you into the cath lab and insert some IV's, one of which renders you, more or less, unconscious (but still able to answer questions). The doctor then makes an incision in the groin area, basically where the right leg connects to the torso, so that he can feed a very thin wiry device into the femoral artery. Once the device is in the artery, the bloodstream carries it up into the heart where the doctor maneuvers it through various other arteries to see where there could be a problem. I've been lucky because the problems have, so far, been treatable with the insertion of stents and haven't required open-heart surgery. Once an area of blockage is discovered, the doctor inflates a balloon on the wiry device, and your artery is popped open. The stent--an often drug-coated, metallic mesh "box"--is then fed through the femoral artery and stationed in the problem area, where it will presumably prevent further blocking in that area of the artery. Once the procedure is completed, a collagen plug is inserted into the cut in the femoral artery so that you don't bleed to death. The plug eventually is absorbed into the body and that's that. The last time I'd had it done, they weren't yet using collagen plugs, and a nurse was required to use both hands and push with all her might on my groin until the blood flow ceased and said groin looked as if it had gone ten rounds with (insert name of boxer of choice here, as I don't keep up with that stuff). The worst part, to me, is ripping off the sterile mega-tape that holds the gauze in place over your groin incision. This usually occurs a day or so later, and generally feels as though the skin is being ripped from your bones.

There is a point to this rambling narrative but, to get to it, I need to go back a bit, rewind, as it were, to the part where I'm lying naked on that table in the cath lab, woozy but not yet in a completely altered state. There was a woman standing next to me and her name was Jerri. Jerri was fiftyish and I'm not sure exactly what her title is but maybe she was a nurse. Whatever the case, Jerri's job was to monitor my blood pressure and elicit answers from me during the time that my speech was still intelligible. I happened to mention to Jerri that I was working on a screenplay--I guess I felt that someone should know this in the event of my expiration during the procedure--and she told me to keep at it, because she knew a little bit about the business since her nephew was--is--a producer in Hollywood. Groggily, I seemed to perk up for a moment, and informed her that it was still the first draft and she suggested that maybe when I was satisfied with the screenplay I could
Yes, that's what I thought, too. The next thing I knew, the procedure was finished, and I was in a recovery area listening to a goddamned sports channel (Why? Why? Why?) on the television affixed to the wall. Since I was the cath lab's final patient of the day, the crew, including Jerri, had gone for the day. And once the mega-tape was peeled from my wound, I was released from the hospital, never to see Jerri or know exactly how she finished her provocative sentence. I assumed--and still do--that she meant for me to get the screenplay into shape so that I could give it to her to look over, before sending it on to her nephew, the movie producer in Hollywood. Perhaps this is wishful thinking on my part; perhaps I was deeply under the influence of whatever drug had been induced into the IV and hearing what I wanted to hear. Perhaps I even misunderstood her name. Was Jerri what I'd heard her say? I wouldn't bet the farm on it. Perhaps she was actually a Bambi (although she certainly didn't look it). Or a Constance? She'd had a New Englandish accent, from what I remembered, and Constance is certainly a New Englandish sounding name. You know, Constance McKenzie, Peyton Place, and all that. At any rate, contacting Jerri/Bambi/Constance was not in the cards, at least not until I whipped my screenplay into shape.

So, full of enthusiasm, and Jerri/Bambi/Constance's encouraging words, I returned to my computer, prepared to work out a screenplay that would make me proud (and, hopefully, rich). I sat at the desk typing, watching the words turn into sentences, and then into dialogue, dancing bountifully, joyously across the computer screen as idea after idea leapt from my fired mind onto the virtual pages presented before me. On page 25, I decided to take a break and read what I'd written thus far. And I came to the realization that it was trite, it was contrived, it was downright silly. How could I write that? Was my mind still reeling from the after-effects of the IV's? I hated the script! The next day, I sat down at my desk, having worked an entirely new scenario out in my mind during the night. Once again I began to type, the words dancing joyously, bountifully, etc., etc., and when I reached page 25, or thereabouts, I, once again, decided to have a look at what I had accomplished. Dear God, had I lost my mind? What was I thinking? How could I write that kind of crap? In two days, I had segued from writing a psychological thriller about the symbiotic relationship between a troubled gay psychologist and his disturbed and closeted patient, to a sci-fi extravaganza about a drug produced from interdimensional creatures and the resulting havoc of having this drug (and the creatures) smuggled into our world. At the time, they'd both seemed like good ideas. I resolved to stay away from the keyboard for a few days until I could rearrange my untidy thoughts into some semblence of a producable screenplay. The days turned into weeks, and then into a month. I sat back down at the computer and then proceeded to start an entirely new screenplay, with entirely new characters, this time about an unemployed, would-be artist, an elderly neighbor, and her missing cat. At page 25, the usual roadblock occurred. The next day, the screenplay was a film noir concerning an amnesiac, a seedy motel, and a crime ring in Hollywood, Florida. Page 25 arrived and it was DOA. I am trying to write, to create a professional product, something that can be produced or published, something that I can look at and say, "See, I'm a professional writer." Not because of an overwhelming desire to be rich, and certainly not to be famous. But because this is what I have always done, writing (not professionally), that is, and this (writing professionally) is what I have always wanted to do. Eventually, I will snap out of this creative limbo, the curse of Page 25, and I will get my script completed, though God knows what it will be about. There's a screenplay that I wrote 3 years ago, still waiting patiently in a drawer to be edited (once it was finished, I couldn't go back to it right away) while I stew and procrastinate. The thing I have to do right now, what anyone who really wants to write must do, is sit down and, well, write. It may not be a workable screenplay, it may not be a feasible novel, it may not be anything more than a bunch of words, which is basically what I'm putting into this blog, but at least it's something, at least it's writing, and someday, the inspiration will come, the block will lift, and the words will transform themselves into something that a professional writer can be proud of.