Earworm
Writing Prompt from Writing Excuses - Season 01 - Episode 16 - Butt in Chair, Hands on Keyboard
"Write a story about something unusual stopping a novelist from finishing his/her book"
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
There it was again.
That song, in my head.
I can't place it, can't remember where it's from. Is it from a movie? A TV show? A concert I've been to? It's kind of catchy, that's the problem.
I want to be a writer. Seriously. I've wanted to be one for a very long time, but there's always been something stopping me. First it was school, always had to study, right? I can remember my parent's faces when I was accepted into the university. Have to make them proud, live up to expectations. Have to be an engineer! The only real way to get ahead in life when you live in a third world country.
Sigh.
Once I started working, then of course you have to put in the time. Have to be the best. Have to impress my boss, become indispensable; an integral cog in this great machine that pays my bills and lets me save enough so I can buy my wife nice things.
Double sigh.
Now I'm in my thirties, in a comfortable position. My mind wanders. Things I haven't thought of in years come back to me. Ideas I had. I dig up some old files. Yes! I wasn't that bad, really. Obviously a complete rookie, but still, I think I have a knack for telling tall tales.
I tell my wife about it and she's super supportive. Go for it. Why not? I feel silly, honestly. Why not?
I'm taking my time now. Studying the craft, learning about the business. I'm making the time in my schedule after work and on the weekends. Unplugging my console. Disconnecting from the WiFi so I'm not tempted by the internet. Locking the dog out of my home office.
I want to do this. Let's go!
Page 1:
"da-dum-chick-a-boom..."
What is that?
"la-la-la-yeah-yeah-do-do-do-boom..."
My neighbors must be listening to music, I suppose. Let me get my noise cancelling headphones. Hmmmm. That's better.
Alone with my thoughts.
All me.
Aaaaaaaaaaall by myself.
"ba-dum-ba-dum-da-da-da-bum..."
What's going on? Where's that song coming from?
I check my headphones. They seem to work. I no longer hear the air conditioner. I don't hear the music now.
Just in my head, I suppose. Headphones back on.
"boop-a-do-do-do..."
OK, that's enough. What is this song?
Page 38:
Sigh.
It's been two weeks. I hear the song every time I'm alone with my thoughts.
I hum it for my wife, she has no idea where it's from. I try to play it on my guitar but whenever I try I just can't seem to articulate the notes. Nothing comes together but I can hear it clearly in my head.
It's not stopping.
Is it my subconscious? Am I just deluding myself? Should I go to a doctor?
I resist the temptation to go to the internet for medical advice, as I'd probably end up diagnosing myself with a brain tumor or something.
Double sigh.
Page 73:
I've been stuck on this page for three weeks.
I would call it 'writer's block' but I'm not so much blocked as I have an eternal, mysterious playlist going off in my head. I'm really considering going to see a doctor.
Maybe I have some sort of disorder?
That'd be too easy, though.
It's just weird. Whenever I'm at work, I'm thinking about writing. When I'm driving I can see how all the pieces fit together in my head. Character. Plot. Setting.
Where's my conflict? What's the arc that I want to tell? Whose story should I really begin with? Do I want to write this in the third person? First person? Who is my real hero?
Do I even need a hero? What if I twist it up?
What if I fail?
What if I never get past this page?
Page 123:
It's gotten a little easier because I figured out that my mind is my enemy.
Now that I know for a fact that my mind is actively working against me becoming a writer, I've taken steps to fight back against it.
I tried alcohol but I've never been much of a drinker. I think it only made the song louder. Happier, too.
I tried using different music but I seem to have another issue. It has to be a song I don't know, otherwise I'll be singing it along in my head. I can't disconnect from it. I tried instrumental, unknown compositions but as soon as they become white noise, that song pops into my head again.
My wife suggested I use voice notes when driving to help me keep my ideas as they come to me, and it was a great idea. Now I can usually write a page or two every day, listening to myself. The song doesn't get as much of a chance to cut into my thought process because I'm paying attention, then quickly putting words on the screen.
Eventually though, this short window of productivity becomes unstable. I take too long loading the next voice note or I glance away for a split second, and there’s the song.
"Doo-do-la-la-yeah-yeah-boom-chik-a-bow..."
Page 131:
The notes aren't doing it anymore. If anything the song has become louder, trying to drown out all other thoughts.
What's happening to me?
Page 134:
My wife suggested I try meditation techniques. I figure it's worth a shot. My writing's slowing down. I'm getting very frustrated.
I go to this old Asian shop where they do acupuncture. The needles creep me out, but the soft plucking and strumming of the exotic music and the strangeness of the situation seem to help in relaxing me.
A wizened old man who smokes a pipe that exudes a thick, flowery-smelling smoke usually sits by himself in a corner of the shop. He always speaks to me in what I assume is Mandarin, but I just smile at him and duck into my therapy room.
Page 135:
As I walked into the shop that day, I felt the old man's eyes on me. He stood slowly as I headed towards the room and he extended his cane across the doorway, stopping me.
He said some things I didn't understand.
I smiled and waited for him to move.
He repeated what he said and grabbed a hold of my arm with surprising strength. His voice became louder, with a harsh tinge to it.
My usual attendant peeked out of the room and took in the strange situation. She spoke to the old man and their rapid-fire exchange left me confused.
Slowly a look of disgust flashes across her face, and she nodded.
The old man brought down his cane and they both ushered me into the room. Before I could walk to the screen where I usually take off my clothes, they had me lie down on my back and he handed me the pipe I'd seen him smoking every time I'd been there.
I told him that I didn't smoke, but there was something in his eye that made the words catch in my throat halfway.
I'm not sure what I saw in there, but I remember feeling very cold. I felt goosebumps all over my skin as I shivered. He pushed the pipe towards me again.
Looking into his eyes, I take a pull from the dark wooden pipe. There were etchings all across it and it looked ancient. The flowery smell was overwhelming and I felt warmth spread through my body. I had tried hookah pipes before, but nothing that made me feel that way.
The old man and the young woman were talking in low tones but I barely heard them. They kept fading away as if I was slowly draining through a sieve.
I felt something strange in my head. A tingling sensation that came and went. It got stronger. The old man hovered over me, kept the pipe pressed to my lips.
I inhaled another puff and the tingling got stronger. I saw my attendant look for something in one of the shelves that held dozens of small jars and start preparing some sort of concoction in a small bowl. By my fourth puff I felt nothing but the tingling in my ears, which was getting stronger.
It felt more like wriggling now, like when you have water in your ear; a cold drop that is slowly winding its way through your ear canal. She comes over with the bowl in hand and uses a cotton swab, dipped in some of the dark liquid she prepared and dabs my ears with it.
I felt pressure in my sinuses and a blinding spike of pain pierced my forehead. I tried to raise my hands but at some point they had wrapped a velvety rope across my wrists. The old man put his hand on the top of my head as the young woman held me by the chin. I bit down on the pipe and tried to spit it out but they didn't let me. She set the bowl down and pinched my nose. He used his other hand to keep my lips closed around the pipe.
I couldn't breathe.
I struggled against them but I felt weak and lethargic. The pain in my head wasn't subsiding. The pressure kept increasing until I felt as if my eyes were going to pop out of their sockets. I gulped for air but only got more of the flowery smoke through the pipe's broken mouthpiece.
At that moment my ears plugged up. I felt like a thunderclap had gone off inside my head leaving a void, an emptiness at the same time that the feeling of rushing blood behind my eyes increased. The pain was excruciating. All the while the old man held my gaze with a pitying expression. I heard myself cry out, muted as if through a cushion. I felt the wriggling become a desperate thrumming in my ears.
I was going to pass out. My oxygen-deprived brain couldn't take any more and I began to see strange spots in my vision. The flowery smoke had driven all the breath from my body. A burning pain began in my throat as I struggled weakly against my captors.
I was going to die.
I felt a pop in my ears and sound rushed back. My heels were drumming on the bed. My cries were no longer muffled but desperate pleas. I heard as much as felt a wet scraping through my head. It felt as if they'd driven a screwdriver into each ear, but I still saw their hands on my face. My head was going to explode. My eyes strained against the sockets. I felt a tooth crack against the pipe's metal mouthpiece.
I was going to...
Page 378:
The jar on my desk is weird and grosses my wife out.
The dark and mottled stringy body sits immobile in the clear, viscous liquid. About eight inches long and half as wide as a pencil, I feel its dead, eyeless head look at me accusingly.
I flip it off -my daily ritual- and keep writing.
"Write a story about something unusual stopping a novelist from finishing his/her book"
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
There it was again.
That song, in my head.
I can't place it, can't remember where it's from. Is it from a movie? A TV show? A concert I've been to? It's kind of catchy, that's the problem.
I want to be a writer. Seriously. I've wanted to be one for a very long time, but there's always been something stopping me. First it was school, always had to study, right? I can remember my parent's faces when I was accepted into the university. Have to make them proud, live up to expectations. Have to be an engineer! The only real way to get ahead in life when you live in a third world country.
Sigh.
Once I started working, then of course you have to put in the time. Have to be the best. Have to impress my boss, become indispensable; an integral cog in this great machine that pays my bills and lets me save enough so I can buy my wife nice things.
Double sigh.
Now I'm in my thirties, in a comfortable position. My mind wanders. Things I haven't thought of in years come back to me. Ideas I had. I dig up some old files. Yes! I wasn't that bad, really. Obviously a complete rookie, but still, I think I have a knack for telling tall tales.
I tell my wife about it and she's super supportive. Go for it. Why not? I feel silly, honestly. Why not?
I'm taking my time now. Studying the craft, learning about the business. I'm making the time in my schedule after work and on the weekends. Unplugging my console. Disconnecting from the WiFi so I'm not tempted by the internet. Locking the dog out of my home office.
I want to do this. Let's go!
Page 1:
"da-dum-chick-a-boom..."
What is that?
"la-la-la-yeah-yeah-do-do-do-boom..."
My neighbors must be listening to music, I suppose. Let me get my noise cancelling headphones. Hmmmm. That's better.
Alone with my thoughts.
All me.
Aaaaaaaaaaall by myself.
"ba-dum-ba-dum-da-da-da-bum..."
What's going on? Where's that song coming from?
I check my headphones. They seem to work. I no longer hear the air conditioner. I don't hear the music now.
Just in my head, I suppose. Headphones back on.
"boop-a-do-do-do..."
OK, that's enough. What is this song?
Page 38:
Sigh.
It's been two weeks. I hear the song every time I'm alone with my thoughts.
I hum it for my wife, she has no idea where it's from. I try to play it on my guitar but whenever I try I just can't seem to articulate the notes. Nothing comes together but I can hear it clearly in my head.
It's not stopping.
Is it my subconscious? Am I just deluding myself? Should I go to a doctor?
I resist the temptation to go to the internet for medical advice, as I'd probably end up diagnosing myself with a brain tumor or something.
Double sigh.
Page 73:
I've been stuck on this page for three weeks.
I would call it 'writer's block' but I'm not so much blocked as I have an eternal, mysterious playlist going off in my head. I'm really considering going to see a doctor.
Maybe I have some sort of disorder?
That'd be too easy, though.
It's just weird. Whenever I'm at work, I'm thinking about writing. When I'm driving I can see how all the pieces fit together in my head. Character. Plot. Setting.
Where's my conflict? What's the arc that I want to tell? Whose story should I really begin with? Do I want to write this in the third person? First person? Who is my real hero?
Do I even need a hero? What if I twist it up?
What if I fail?
What if I never get past this page?
Page 123:
It's gotten a little easier because I figured out that my mind is my enemy.
Now that I know for a fact that my mind is actively working against me becoming a writer, I've taken steps to fight back against it.
I tried alcohol but I've never been much of a drinker. I think it only made the song louder. Happier, too.
I tried using different music but I seem to have another issue. It has to be a song I don't know, otherwise I'll be singing it along in my head. I can't disconnect from it. I tried instrumental, unknown compositions but as soon as they become white noise, that song pops into my head again.
My wife suggested I use voice notes when driving to help me keep my ideas as they come to me, and it was a great idea. Now I can usually write a page or two every day, listening to myself. The song doesn't get as much of a chance to cut into my thought process because I'm paying attention, then quickly putting words on the screen.
Eventually though, this short window of productivity becomes unstable. I take too long loading the next voice note or I glance away for a split second, and there’s the song.
"Doo-do-la-la-yeah-yeah-boom-chik-a-bow..."
Page 131:
The notes aren't doing it anymore. If anything the song has become louder, trying to drown out all other thoughts.
What's happening to me?
Page 134:
My wife suggested I try meditation techniques. I figure it's worth a shot. My writing's slowing down. I'm getting very frustrated.
I go to this old Asian shop where they do acupuncture. The needles creep me out, but the soft plucking and strumming of the exotic music and the strangeness of the situation seem to help in relaxing me.
A wizened old man who smokes a pipe that exudes a thick, flowery-smelling smoke usually sits by himself in a corner of the shop. He always speaks to me in what I assume is Mandarin, but I just smile at him and duck into my therapy room.
Page 135:
As I walked into the shop that day, I felt the old man's eyes on me. He stood slowly as I headed towards the room and he extended his cane across the doorway, stopping me.
He said some things I didn't understand.
I smiled and waited for him to move.
He repeated what he said and grabbed a hold of my arm with surprising strength. His voice became louder, with a harsh tinge to it.
My usual attendant peeked out of the room and took in the strange situation. She spoke to the old man and their rapid-fire exchange left me confused.
Slowly a look of disgust flashes across her face, and she nodded.
The old man brought down his cane and they both ushered me into the room. Before I could walk to the screen where I usually take off my clothes, they had me lie down on my back and he handed me the pipe I'd seen him smoking every time I'd been there.
I told him that I didn't smoke, but there was something in his eye that made the words catch in my throat halfway.
I'm not sure what I saw in there, but I remember feeling very cold. I felt goosebumps all over my skin as I shivered. He pushed the pipe towards me again.
Looking into his eyes, I take a pull from the dark wooden pipe. There were etchings all across it and it looked ancient. The flowery smell was overwhelming and I felt warmth spread through my body. I had tried hookah pipes before, but nothing that made me feel that way.
The old man and the young woman were talking in low tones but I barely heard them. They kept fading away as if I was slowly draining through a sieve.
I felt something strange in my head. A tingling sensation that came and went. It got stronger. The old man hovered over me, kept the pipe pressed to my lips.
I inhaled another puff and the tingling got stronger. I saw my attendant look for something in one of the shelves that held dozens of small jars and start preparing some sort of concoction in a small bowl. By my fourth puff I felt nothing but the tingling in my ears, which was getting stronger.
It felt more like wriggling now, like when you have water in your ear; a cold drop that is slowly winding its way through your ear canal. She comes over with the bowl in hand and uses a cotton swab, dipped in some of the dark liquid she prepared and dabs my ears with it.
I felt pressure in my sinuses and a blinding spike of pain pierced my forehead. I tried to raise my hands but at some point they had wrapped a velvety rope across my wrists. The old man put his hand on the top of my head as the young woman held me by the chin. I bit down on the pipe and tried to spit it out but they didn't let me. She set the bowl down and pinched my nose. He used his other hand to keep my lips closed around the pipe.
I couldn't breathe.
I struggled against them but I felt weak and lethargic. The pain in my head wasn't subsiding. The pressure kept increasing until I felt as if my eyes were going to pop out of their sockets. I gulped for air but only got more of the flowery smoke through the pipe's broken mouthpiece.
At that moment my ears plugged up. I felt like a thunderclap had gone off inside my head leaving a void, an emptiness at the same time that the feeling of rushing blood behind my eyes increased. The pain was excruciating. All the while the old man held my gaze with a pitying expression. I heard myself cry out, muted as if through a cushion. I felt the wriggling become a desperate thrumming in my ears.
I was going to pass out. My oxygen-deprived brain couldn't take any more and I began to see strange spots in my vision. The flowery smoke had driven all the breath from my body. A burning pain began in my throat as I struggled weakly against my captors.
I was going to die.
I felt a pop in my ears and sound rushed back. My heels were drumming on the bed. My cries were no longer muffled but desperate pleas. I heard as much as felt a wet scraping through my head. It felt as if they'd driven a screwdriver into each ear, but I still saw their hands on my face. My head was going to explode. My eyes strained against the sockets. I felt a tooth crack against the pipe's metal mouthpiece.
I was going to...
Page 378:
The jar on my desk is weird and grosses my wife out.
The dark and mottled stringy body sits immobile in the clear, viscous liquid. About eight inches long and half as wide as a pencil, I feel its dead, eyeless head look at me accusingly.
I flip it off -my daily ritual- and keep writing.