Unemployed.  Unencumbered.  My beloved wife, Martha, took the kids to Gramma’s for the week, to let them play on that rickety jungle gym or build birdhouses with Uncle Paul.  This is my time.  Weather forecast calls for thundershowers, so I can’t escape to play golf.  No worries; a surge protector will prevent unwanted shocks.  I’m set.  Seven days and a stocked liquor cabinet.  But I won’t let myself drink.  That’s for celebration.  Sandwiches in a mini-fridge, phones disconnected, two spiral notebooks worth of sketches and half-baked concepts, and precious writing time.  Sleep only when necessary.  My deadline dictates I put together a legible vomit draft before they return home Sunday evening.  Bartholomew, our cat, has enough food and water to last a couple days.  If it reaches the point where he has to roll in his own filth, we’ll be kindred spirits.  This is it.

Boot camp.  I wish I typed faster, but sixty words-per-minute will need to suffice.  I’m sure once this thing gets rolling, I’ll lose hours.  I can’t wait.  There are no greater joys for a writer than getting lost in a story.  Every book is an island.  Find that magic entry, be it by boat, hot air balloon, magic carpet or underground tunnel, and explore until you find the buried treasure.  At least that’s what Emmett learned in his Exciting Excursion to Seaweed Bay. 

Five books later, I’d given up on Emmett.  Benjamin is thirteen and Sofia is eleven; while they enjoy the benefits of my books selling, they long ago moved on to juvenile fiction.  Since I hit the big four-oh in April, it’s about time I did something more grown-up.  I always envision myself a cross between Shel Silverstein and Alfred Hitchcock; it’s due time I explore the latter’s influence deeper.

I sort through my random filing in search of inspiration, but the sudden sharpness is physical rather than creative.  Ouch!  Paper cut on my thumb!  Piffle!

Piffle?  If this is going to reach an older audience, I have to get out of Emmett’s mindset.  I mutter, “Dammit” to confirm my memory of real curse words.  I consider the controversy created by a children’s author trying a more mature venue, but I’m not writing smut here, just mystery.  Detectives say dammit.  They say ****.  They do not say “Piffle.”  If Pebblebrook Books wants to get on my case for it, good!  Let them do an article on it.  All publicity is good publicity.  But first, I need to get this story started.

My thumb corrects me.  First, I need to stop the bleeding.  Like Gene Fowler said, “Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.”  I wipe a streak across my brow.  That’s better.

A quick shuffle through the pencil drawer reveals no band-aids, so I jerry-rig a folded post-it with some scotch tape.  It stings a little, but I’ll hit the space bar with my left thumb.  No big loss. 

The doorbell rings. 

 Who’s that knocking on my door?
I don’t want a visitor! 

Go away, whoever you are.  No distractions.  Especially if your presence is going to cause me to think in verse. 

I look at a photo of myself with an arm around a man in a giant raccoon costume from four years ago.  Has it been that long since I’ve produced anything?  Is that why Martha didn’t push very hard for me to go to Vermont with them?  We’d spoken about a home writer’s retreat for months – to give me a proper chance to mine the depths of my psyche and purge a new story.  I’m sure Martha thought Emmett would have another incarnation, but I had deeper thoughts.  Harder ones. 

Even so, we asked Janette Healey next door to pick up our mail.  So far as anyone knows, I’m in maple syrup country.

There’s that doorbell again, dammit!  Yeah.  That feels natural.  Unfortunately, so does

One step at a time. 

I have no intent of further postponing an epiphany to buy Girl Scout cookies.  My window faces the back yard, where Benjamin’s twelve speed ignores its kickstand and soaks up rainfall in the overgrown lawn.  That boy has no respect for his belongings.  Oh well.  If he wants a new bike as nice as that one, he’ll have to mow a lot of grass.

I press a button on my iPod and ominous cellos fill the room.  Ah, yes.  Danny Elfman’s Music for a Darkened Theater. 

I close my eyes and flush all thoughts of raccoons from my mind.  Anthropomorphism may have brought me to this level, but if the best I can do after four years of inactivity on this plateau is another Emmett piece, I’m going to jump off a cliff.

What would Alfred Hitchcock do?  Besides the idea of witnessing a murder out my window, I can’t channel the master.  Unless some burglar trips over Ben’s bike and impales himself on the handlebars, I don’t foresee that happening.

Even my pep talks come in verse.  Maybe it’s not such a bad idea to kick off this endeavor with a martini.  Find the proper level of intoxication: not enough alcohol causes my hands to tremble the same way as too much.  Reach equilibrium and let the ideas flow.

I fold a sheet of paper around a pen and sheathe them both in my pocket – in case inspiration strikes me in the basement.  Down a flight of stairs, past a run of photos and an embroidered family tree Martha’s sister Denise put together for us.  I’ve no idea why we don’t take it down.  Beneath the apples symbolizing our marriage in the center – Albert and Martha Bryant – stem not two, but three offspring: Benjamin, Sofia and, of course, Emmett. 

It’s one thing to suffer the admiration of anonymous fans.  It’s flattering.  But, besides fan letters (which Ted Thomas, my agent, claims to filter, though I doubt he receives any anymore), it never infiltrates the house.  Whereas when Denise started obsessing over Emmett, it was nonstop racoonery.  Daniel Boone caps for the kids at Christmas.  Rocky Raccoon on repeat whenever we visited.  That’s why I topped out at six books.  Sure, I could bring him back, but... but that’s not the point.  The point is getting a drink and getting writing.  Disregard everything else.

I descend into the entertainment room, circle the bar, and reunite two of my favorite friends, Gordon and Gallo.  Three olives sink to the bottom of the glass.  I return up the stairs, grabbing a bag of cool ranch Doritos from the pantry as I pass.  They make a horrible combination, but as an author, I’m required to have a vice.

Stirring my cocktail with a free finger, I cross the dining room into the foyer.  A thin shard of gray light reaches through a crack and divides the oriental rug.  How did the front door open? 

“Hello?” I call to no one.  At least, I hope no one responds.

Piffle!  Better go back and make another drink.