Black Moment, Anyone?

by Kathy Flake

Characters, I always knew, were supposed to have Black Moments--but I never knew their creators were also subject to the phenomenon. Then a couple of weeks ago, I found myself in the black hole of Black Moments--not even William Shatner could pilot the Enterprise through this one.

I was having a bad day, the tail end of a bad week–in fact, the whole decade had pretty much been a downer. So I decided to quit writing, cold turkey. I closed the file I was working on (labeled Meaningless Crap, Chapter Twenty), with a vow never to open it again. Writing, I told myself, is a thankless profession, full of rejection and heartache. Professional tennis probably has fewer setbacks. (And kinder line judges.)

I decided it was time for a new career.

Luckily it was Sunday, and the Want Ads were overflowing with enticing job opportunities, most of them beginning with unfathomable initials: "FT PBX Operator needed" and "PT MIS, no OT." (One of these probably involves propane, or some other caustic substance.) I didn’t see the position I really wanted, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, so I considered a job at Wild Oats--I am, after all, able to correctly pronounce "edamame" and am never stumped when asked where the tamari is located. But they’d most likely expect me to operate a cash register--I bet it's easier to reprogram the Pentagon computers.

My dream job, book store employee, is out, naturally, since I won’t want to be reminded of my previous position: FT/ LPW (Full Time/Lousy Prose Writer).

Maybe I’m just not cut out for another profession. A friend pointed out, after I mentioned wanting to get a job at Target, that I wouldn’t be satisfied unless they let me run the whole store. She’s right: first thing I’d do is change the color scheme to a soft pink and ecru.

Until now, I always thought the writing profession suited me pretty well. I make my own hours, (or minutes, some days), and business trips consist of jaunts across the yard to the mailbox. I don’t even have to invest in a work wardrobe. (Flashback to poor Mr. Rogers, forced to constantly change out of his comfy sweater and sneakers into a sport coat and Florsheims.) My characters don’t mind if I wear a torn Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt and chartreuse sweatpants, and postal employees could care less if I’m wearing make-up, as long as I’m not holding an assault rifle.

Still, I am having a Black Moment, if only in the name of research. A crisis similar to this probably gave Will Shakespeare the idea for that whole To Be or Not To Be thing--although in this case the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune were flung by a couple of contest judges. Maybe, by getting myself out of my own black moment, I’ll figure out how my hero does it as well (a problem which incited my own descent into darkness). Maybe I can learn something from it, or at least write a really good soliloquy.

If not--wonder if Venus is up for a quick game at Wimbledon?