Because writers might on occasion grapple with insecurities, Alex J. Cavanaugh founded an Insecure Writer’s Support Group for bloggers. We’re posting monthly, exposing our insecurities and/or offering support. Please check out Alex’s link to visit others’ posts. It’s a group of exceptional writers, authors and fun folks.
And now, kindly excuse or enjoy, or excuse and enjoy, my weirdness.
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I’d scheduled the appointment ages ago. Alas, my turn came. There was so much to say, but how would I say it? How does one talk with Father Time? I wondered if I should start with “Hey, what’s up?” Or perhaps a joke. The guy’s gotta have a sense of humor, right? [Look at Joan Rivers.] Before I planned my strategy, Father Time stepped out to greet me with a flimsy handshake.
He then walked me over to his office: a room the size of a football field. Enclosed by cream colored walls and turquoise shag carpet, it boasted multitudes of hot red La-Z-Boy Recliners.
Father Time looked young for his age, like a mix of George Burns in Oh God II and Charleton Heston in The Ten Commandments, but with Homer Simpson’s belly after a round of Krispy Kremes.
“Come on over,” he said. I heard the slapping of flip-flops against his heels, as he escorted me to a pair of recliners in one corner of the room.
The man extended his arm towards the smaller of the chairs. “Have a seat,” he offered.
I nervously eased into the chair, watching Father Time recline with a loud sigh. He then lifted his left wrist to his face to check the hour. It seemed he also wanted to impress me with his lustrous gold Rolex.
“Ebay find?” I asked.
He nodded proudly and pulled out a flask from his inside jacket pocket. The man took a swig. “Would you like some?”
“Oh, no, no thanks. Not now,” I responded with increased angst.
“So what brings you here?”
It seemed I’d need to work at getting him focused, so I slowly crossed my right leg over the left. Then I subtly shifted my hip to the side, while seductively running my fingertips through my hair. “Um I just, I wish you were on my side more like you are with the other writers. The ones who talk about taking it easy on themselves and ONLY writing one book per year because they’ve just published their eighth novel in the past 5 months and meanwhile I struggle with you to write anything. We’re talking like one comment on someone’s blog. And then after I’ve pressed publish I see a typo. And then, Father Time, then the dilemma really hits: should I correct myself and look stupid? Or should I not correct myself and look stupid? Or should I delete my comment altogether, re-write it, and look stupid? And by this time, it’s like –“
His roaring snores interrupt my rant.
“Well, I guess I’ll be going now,” I say cheerfully, checking the hour on my Hello Kitty Wal-Mart special Kid’s watch. Before I leave, though, I tiptoe over to grab the flask that’s now resting at the foot of Father Time’s chair. I gulp down the rest of its contents and dart off.
