Sooner or later it comes to every writer (with the notable exception of Edgar Rice Burroughs): that conviction of utter hopelessness, that inability to write another word. We call it “Maria.”
Everything is set up for Violet Crepuscular, The Queen of Suspense, to embark on Chapter DCCXLIV of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney. The June Taylor Dancers are lurking in the woods around Scurveyshire. Lord Jeremy has his 20-pound accordion. {“Does it weigh 20 pounds, did it cost 20 pounds, or both?” we hear you ask.) Mr. Pudding has organized his newts.
And there’s poor Violet, stuck in neutral.
“A Greek fortune-teller told me this would happen!” she confides in her rapidly diminishing host of readers. “How told me in great detail how to avoid it; but I don’t speak Greek, so I didn’t understand a word of it.”
The publisher is thinking of bringing in a ghost writer, but that would require a seance.
“I have to break through!” Ms. Crepuscular agonizes. “There must be dozens of readers waiting tensely for my next chapter!” Will the newts run wild? Will the June Taylor Dancers dance to Lord Jeremy’s tune? Has the evil medieval sorcerer, Black Rodney, come back to stay? Is the theater really dead?
[Advice to Violet: You need an agent, kiddo. Binky Fong Associates is looking for new authors to introduce to a largely Manchurian audience. Tell ’em A Guy sent you.]