His Defining Work

George A. Yesthal

Writers block. “Not now”, he thought. With so much to say and now the words failed him.

He’d been a writer for over two decades. Had some pieces published in bottom shelf rags as well as a few articles in his hometown daily; The Effort. He had a piece on theater published in Variety and was very proud of it until a little introspection revealed that it was the venue rather than the quality of his endeavor that fueled his pride. Then the worth of it seemed to sour. To his credit, he’d always remained freelance instead of selling out to the need for a paycheck. He had the credentials, but writing was his passion and he knew that a job in the field would be only that; a job. A labor, making his love of the written word a drudgery.

Now he sat before the monitor, fingers poised over the keypad and stalled. He’d gotten out of bed, taken a shower and shaved. He put on clean but comfortable clothes planning to write the most profound work of his career. A personal piece but powerful. He certainly had an amplitude of fuel for this piece, but the impetus remained aloof.

He got up and poured himself a small glass of Gentleman Jack (neat) that he’d been saving for a special occasion. This morning qualified, even though it was barely past 9:00 am. “it’s five o’clock somewhere,” he rationalized and sat down at the computer with fresh resolve and typed ‘November fourth, 2008…’ and there he sat, frozen in the moment as flaccid and non-prolific as a ninety year old cock.

Should he italicize? No, he had an aversion to italics as if they were some contrived quasi-neon billboard screaming; “Look at me! I AM WORTHY”. He knew it was just a personal idiosyncrasy but it stood there boldly, nonetheless.

Like any writer he had so much to say. His life had been a rapid fire succession of highs and lows. The highs were always the good part and he handled them well but the lows sent him into a maelstrom of depression. Had a kid with a girl right out of high school and he loved that girl dearly. Her name was Casey. Her father was some sort of foreign correspondent who also worked for the government and when he and his wife found out Casey was pregnant they were inconsolable and the old man took a job in Bangkok and that was that. One day he went to picker her up at her house and the place was empty. Just like that. He was never even able to find out whether they’d had a boy or a girl. That depression lasted for a long while.

Now he thought about it and felt the old pangs of pain anew. But that was the past. No sense drudging up pain that he no control over. He sat back and stared impotently at the keyboard and sighed. All that passion and pain and no words to accompany them. No vibrant emotive explosions to excite the reader. No dancing memory painted into a canvass of literary stimulus that would make the best seller’s list. Just the glaring computer screen taunting and niggling at him.

But he was way beyond hoping that he would ever create a blockbuster and had already made up his mind that today’s effort would be a solemn bitter sweet ode to all he had and had not achieved in his 36 years. But that wouldn’t come either. He went to the bathroom, read the morning paper while having a smoke and reluctantly returned to that accusing blank screen.

He swilled down the bourbon (always his poison) and poured another and sat back down, waiting for the fuse of inspiration to be lit. Nothing. Things simply were not burgeoning. So much he wanted to say; needed to pour out. He’d been thinking on this piece for some time and knew he couldn’t force it if it wouldn’t flow on it’s own. He peered at the clock on the monitor-9:38 am. He could still make it to work at the supermarket if he left now.

“Oh well”, he said aloud, “Maybe tonight the juices will flow”. He saved what he’d started, Nothing but the date, turned off the computer and straightened up his desk. He arose, grabbed his keys, patted the top of the desk and said, “Maybe later…”

Lastly, he opened the right top drawer of the desk and slid the Colts 45 caliber semi-automatic securely inside and closed the drawer. That would wait as well.

His Defining Work

George Yesthal

Brodheadsville, United States

  • Artist
  • Artwork Comments 11

Artist's Description

Saved by the bell… or the lack thereof.

Artwork Comments

  • deliriousgirl
  • George Yesthal
  • DBALehane
  • George Yesthal
  • George Yesthal
  • Jim Hall
  • George Yesthal
  • Jim Hall
  • Patricia Anne McCarty-Tamayo
  • OwassaLori
  • George Yesthal
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

10% off

for joining the Redbubble mailing list

Receive exclusive deals and awesome artist news and content right to your inbox. Free for your convenience.