On Fiction and Impossible Goals...

OK, I started the novel but I'm so far behind the target schedule (1667 words a day...) that I'm having serious doubts about my ability to complete the damn thing. Also, my brain is so literal that I'm having a terrible time firing up my imagination...

Still, I manged to crank out the following:

Agency (tentative title)

Prologue

The Donald Duck struck her first, followed by the purple bowler hat. She barely heard their introductions and embarassed confession that they'd left their checkbook at home. The duck and the hat demanded way more attention.

Denise and Jared presented themselves on a rainy Tuesday morning with high hopes that counseling could solve their problems. Jared reported that he suffered from chronic depression, sometimes psychotic depression, and Denise nodded vigorously in the chair beside him. Jared asserted that he’d done well with his medications and that his mental illness actually helped his artistic pursuits.

Denise’s nods slowed to a stop at that, she cocked her head and her face bricked into disapproval. “Well,” she injected, “but that time you thought you were Gandhi and glued all that dog hair to your truck…and I couldn’t get you to eat or come in and get warm…and you kept yelling at strangers that they had to join the revolution…”

“Yeah, “ he said softly, “it did get a little outta control that time…and Ralph had to drag me to the hospital…but I’m doing better now.”

The therapist glanced again at the large Donald Duck, dancing in tie-dye, across Denise’s breasts. “I like your shirt,” she said. To the therapist’s ears, it sounded trite and false; the sort of thing a beginning counselor would say to avoid getting too deep. She tried to justify it to herself, “These people have serious problems, I only just met them and I’m trying to build the relationship…” But she could recognize her own bullshit. The truth--that she had way too much wine last night, that her boyfriend had just been laid off, and that she really had to pee—reduced her to therapeutic uselessnss.

Denise’s face brightened, she leaned forward and said, “Oh thanks! I got it at Disneyland a couple weeks ago. We love Disney…love it ,love it. Right?” She looked at Jared for confirmation and caressed Donald’s left foot.

“Yeah, man, Disneyland’s awesome. We try to go a couple times a year…it’s like, at Disneyland, it’s all OK…man, all OK… I got this pin in the Space Mountain gift shop.” He pointed to his velvet hat and the therapist ducked forward to see the small pin on it. She lamely said, “Cool.”

Jared reached for Denise’s hand and they sat together proudly in the afterglow of amusement park memories. The therapist observed, “You both look happy.” She watched the emotions move over their faces; joy, fading to hesitation, consternation, confusion, tension and eventually resignation.

“Well,” Denise offered, “we have really good times together but we have some problems we’d like to work on.”’

“Yeah,” Jared sighed. “She doesn’t like sex.”

“That’s not true! I do, it’s just…”

“She says it hurts.”

“Yeah… He’s too big for me or I’m too small or something…”

The therapist glanced at the clock; dismayed to find out that only 15 minutes of the 50 minute session had passed and she already had mental images of these two creatures in the throws of passion.

“So, sex is a big issue right now in your relationship,” the therapist recapped.

“Yeah…and money.” Denise looked even more miserable.

Jared squirmed. “Now, that will get better when me and Ralp get our business off the ground… I told you it won’t be long, like maybe a month.”

Denise looked doubtful. “You said that three months ago but I’m the only one with the job and I have to pay for everything… I wish you could get a real job to tide us over. ”

“I can’t be a slave to the corporate world.” Jared looked at the therapist very seriously. “I’m like a caged animal…one that’s wounded and bites if people mess with it. I can’t work like that. That’s why I’m starting my own business.”

“Well, I don’t like my job either.” Denise turned to the therapist. “I work at the Walmart and it’s not like it’s my dream job.” Her face turned wistful, “I’d really like to go back to school…I wanna be a nurse.”

“Well, when our business takes off, you can go back to school.”

Denise slumped in her chair. The therapist suspected Denise had heard that before, many times.

“So,” the therapist spoke, “Sex, money… are there any other issues you hope to work on?” As if that’s not enough, the therapist thought to herself.

“That’s pretty much it.”

“Yep. Otherwise, we’re doing OK. Denise is great and I love her. I’ve never been with anyone this long before and we have a great time…but, you know, a man has needs…” Denise just took a breath and looked out the window.

The therapist discussed with them the semantics of the therapy process, fees, appointment times, and expectations. She could have gone deeper with them, tried harder, but she didn't have the energy today. At least she didn't give them a stupid homework assignment, like "pay attention to each time you feel your needs are not being met, write it down and bring it back for next session," that they probably wouldn't do and she'd probably forget to ask them about next time. She gave herself some credit.

She shook hands with them and sent them off for another week. Sex and money: A classic, timeless, solutionless struggle for couples the world over. The therapist yawned and locked the door behind her. As she walked down the hall, her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number.

She flipped it open and gave her typical greeting, “Hi, this is Emma…”

The color escaped her face as she absorbed the worst news she’d ever received in her life.