“The Room was Small and Cozy”

By:  Anthony Henry Joseph Maria

The room was small and cozy.  We gathered around a table that barely left room to move.  I could smell the books that bordered us, spilling from every crevice in the old ramshackle home.  The titles lacked creativity, preferring a more direct approach, like “Double Cross”, and “A is for Alibi”.

“As you can see,” Laurie said waving her arms at all the books surrounding us.  “We are in the mystery section.  But the question is where do we get our inspiration?  How do we find that voice inside that compels us to write?”

She looked around the room with incredulous squinting eyes.  Her gaze was returned with dead silence.  One by one she implored us to search for the answer. 

“Sometimes it’s the smallest things,” Laurie continued blushing, stumbling on the phrase.  “I have to admit I’m nervous tonight.  I’m never nervous.”

We shared a brief moment of levity.  The harbouring air temporarily sliced by our flippancy.  I glanced at each person around me, replaying their introductions in my mind.  Moe, a cop, she reminded me of someone I knew, or had met before.  Maureen, she looked like villain from a Harry Potter movie.  Olga, her prose poem reminded me of the Henry Miller books I used to read.  Ruth-Ann, her dark hair curly and refined, her glasses distinguished, she had recently lost her husband.  Laurie, our anxious leader, she basked in the warm glow seeping through the lone window in the room.  Jessie, super serious, she won my praises with her offer of pencil and paper.  Finally there was Karen Rockwell.

“Oh, I don’t watch the news,” Karen said bashfully. 

“Well,” Maureen interjected.  “He is a Canadian hero.  Everyone knows who he is.  He did videos from the space station.  You must have heard of him.  He did that David Bowie song as his final farewell.”

I contemplated coming to Karen’s defense.  I had never heard of Chris Hadfield either.

“I don’t watch the news,” she repeated.  

“Well,” Laurie inclined.  “A great man, he’s done more for the Canadian Space Program than anyone else in history.  He’s basically a rock star.”

I thought over the insane amount of things I probably didn’t know about Canada, and Canadians, while Googling “Chris Hadfield” on my Blackberry, which Laurie had earlier referred to rather hatefully as a device.  

“Well anyway,” Laurie continued.  “I started this dialog off by asking where everyone got there inspiration.  I meant to tell a story about something that recently struck me, before things went astray.”

As I looked at the killer moustache the so called Canadian Hero was sporting on Google Images, I started to see the appeal these ladies had garnered for him.  What a baller, I thought, amused with myself, an astronaut and the mother fucker plays guitar…shit.  Laurie was mid-sentence as I returned to her story.

“I watched the dog, a small border collie, chase after this tiny little rabbit.  I don’t know why, but I just felt something click inside me.  I knew instantly that I wanted to write.  Not necessarily about what I saw, but rather the feeling the entire scene had given me.”

The internal mechanism was idling.  But the need to have a response was irresistible.  I had to have an answer.  I so loved to speak my mind.  Yet I was left with catastrophic ambiguity. 

“So,” Laurie explained.  “I pulled my car over to the side of the desolate road.  Jotted down a few lines in my notebook.  Just enough so that I wouldn’t forget the image, and the feeling I had right then.  I took note of my surroundings, and then I drove back home.  I couldn’t wait to get to there, because I knew I had something.  I wasn’t sure what yet, but I knew there was a start.  I knew I had that ever so elusive ghost, inspiration.”

The mechanism rushed forward.  While each member of the crew gave their potentially honest testimony, I stumbled towards my eventual truth.  For me there was no real inspiration.  There was no dog chasing a rabbit.  The things I saw in life didn’t stick in my mind.  I was never ready to pounce on a feeling or emotion.  Never looking for that subtle queue to put thoughts down.  Maybe it was because they were poets, and I was not.  I didn’t know.  They all seemed to have answers to the question.  But the more I tried to think about what my inspiration was, the more I knew the answer would never suffice.  So I did what I always did.  I did what I knew was my lot in life.  I made something up.  I told a story.